Everything Isn't As It Seems
by inspired.by.music
Summary: A new case stumbles into the capable hands of Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, but things are more than they seem and Holmes gets more than he asked for. Lives are at stake and sanity is no longer in reach, will the calculating detective unravel?
1. Chapter 1

Holmes was in one of his in-between-cases funks. He hadn't left his room in nearly two weeks and Watson was beginning to worry. Although not quite enough to disturb the man without good reason, considering the last time he did so Holmes responded quite heinously. Watson sighed as he read over the morning newspaper without really taking in a word. Holmes was his friend and he was concerned. There was a sharp knock at the front door followed shortly by Mrs. Hudson peaking over his paper.

"There is a visitor at the door for Mr. Holmes." Watson folded the paper and set it neatly down on the table.

"Who?" He asked, hoping it was something that could give Holmes some brain work.

"It's a young lad, won't give his name, but says it's urgent that he speak with Mr. Holmes."

"I'll get Holmes around if you ask the boy if he could spare a minute." Mrs. Hudson nodded and hurried back toward the front door. Watson headed up the stairs and opened the door to Holmes' room. It of course was very dark, the cluttered room looking even more disorganized than usual. He spotted the man lying limply on the overstuffed chair, eyes closed, undoubtedly strung-out. Watson didn't bother saying anything, he crossed the room and pulled the curtains back, early afternoon light flooded into the room. A roar of pain resounded through the enclosed space. Watson had grown accustomed to this reaction and thus ignored it. "You have a visitor, Holmes. Get yourself presentable, he will be waiting in the study."

"No thank you." He snapped bitterly.

"You haven't even met the boy." Watson reasoned patiently.

"I'll pass."

"You need something to occupy you. Now get up."

"I don't want to." Holmes protested and Watson rolled his eyes. It was amazing how this brilliant man could act so childish at times.

"Holmes, as your doctor…"

"I never listen to doctors."

"As your friend! He might bring you the most interesting case of your life and you're gonna miss it because you're too busy moping." Holmes' glazed over eyes became more focused as Watson's words took root in his mind.

"I suppose I could spare a moment." He said with an attempt at nonchalant-ness. Watson of course knew better, but he had won so he wouldn't call Holmes out on it.

"Good man. And clean yourself up before you come out. You look positively dreadful." Dried blood and dirt stained his clothes and face from a boxing match over two weeks prior. Watson left Holmes to prepare himself for company and checked the study. Mrs. Hudson hadn't shown the boy up yet, so he went downstairs. The landlady and visitor were in the foyer, a cup of untouched tea was in the boy's hand and silence settled upon them. The boy was dressed in common workman's clothing that was slightly too big for him and wore a hat that shrouded his eyes and gave him a most ominous appearance. Watson walked over and held out his hand, the boy returned with a firm grasp.

"Doctor John Watson at your service."

"As I told the lady, I will only speak to Mr. Holmes." His voice was a little high for his age, giving Watson the impression that he was younger than he appeared, but it also carried the gruffness of oncoming manhood. Most of Holmes clientele said the same, so it came as no surprise to Watson that this boy wouldn't even reveal him name.

"I'll show you upstairs, Mr. Holmes will join us momentarily." The boy followed him up the stairs, into the study. Watson offered him something to drink and a seat on the couch that sat directly across from two chairs. He declined the drink but took a seat on the edge of the couch. Legs apart, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers touching, the stance of a man in thought. Holmes entered the room, causing the young man to stand, wiping his hands on his pants before holding his right out to Holmes. He shook the client's hand before taking a seat on the chair closest to him, Watson and the boy followed suit.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice, Mr. Holmes."

"And what is it that I can help you with, Mr.…"

"If you don't mind sir, my predicament is that of a sensitive nature and I need to know that you are as good as I have heard before I tell you anymore." Holmes nodded and tilted his head.

"And how would you like me to demonstrate this?"

"I have heard that you can tell remarkable things at just a single glance of a person. What have you discovered about me?" A glint in Holmes' eyes portrayed a small amount of mischief.

"I typically don't start with offending the client, it's bad for business."

"You have observed something offensive about me?" The boy inquired.

"People don't like being confronted with the truth, especially when it regards their own person." The mischievous glint grew.

"I assure you I can handle the truth, sir. This is my offer." Holmes considered simply dropping the case, but his interest had been piqued. He studied the lad, from the hat the covered his eyes to the mud splattered boots. Holmes leaned back in his chair. Small details turning into observations, leading to deductions. He stood and began pacing. When he stopped, he stood facing the client.

"There is a slight callous on the inside of your right middle finger which tells me that write, quite often. You prefer handwriting over typewriting, but the ink stains on your thumb and forefinger suggest that you're familiar with the instrument. You're well traveled around London. You are no stranger to manual labor and spend a lot of time in the sun. You have an older brother who you are every close in age and relationship to. Although much of your work is manual, you are well educated. However, over half these observations make little sense considering you are in fact a woman." Watson was the most shocked by the last sentence, he half expected the young man to spring to his feet in outrage. Instead he reached up and pulled off the hat, black wavy hair tumbled down past her shoulders, revealing that instead of an adolescent boy, she was a woman in her mid to late twenties. If the brim of her cap hadn't been covering her eyes it would've been obvious even to Watson. Her prominent cheekbones, narrow nose, and full lips could be mistaken as youthful boyishness, but coupled with her arching eyebrows and almond-shaped green eyes it was unmistakable.

"How did you know?" Her voice lost the gruffness of a man and turned to her natural feminine tone.

"I must say your acting skills are superb. It took me a good minute to figure it out, mostly because the facts collided with this odd conclusion.

"You didn't answer my question." He smirked wryly.

"I think it's my turn to ask a question."

"Alright, a question for a question then."

"Were all my observations correct?" Holmes asked. This was odd to Watson, Holmes was very confident in his power of deduction and for good reason.

"Yes." She answered.

"Then how…?"

"Uh-uh. Did you forget the rules already, Holmes? How did you know I am a woman?"

"The most obvious? You had your ears pierced at some point in your life, they've since grown shut, but there are still scars." She involuntarily touched her earlobes. "Also, while your grasp was firm and your hands calloused, they're quite small for a man. Though the deciding factor would be your figure. I'm sure you went to great lengths to hide your… feminine curves, the oversized clothes were a nice touch, but you can't hide everything, love." He was smirking humorously. This earned Holmes a slap across the face from the woman, as he was unashamedly staring at her barely visible chest.

"Cheeky arse." The two men stared at her, women did not speak like that. "Well I'm not going to apologize if that's what you're waiting for." Holmes rubbed the side of his face, he wasn't sure what to think of this woman.

"How can all my observations be true, and you be a woman?"

"I've worked in this disguise for the last three years. I studied the mannerisms of boys and men and taught myself to be one. Not once have I been even suspected of being anything than what you see on the surface. For three years and you figure it out in all of a few minutes."

"Why?" She almost didn't answer, it was her turn to ask a question, but she was there for help and she already slapped the man.

"My older brother died. Someone has to support my mum and little sister." There was a proud, indignant set to her jaw. She was a woman who did what she had to, she would not be a victim of her circumstances. "Which also brings me to the reason I am here. As I said, three years ago my brother died. He was murdered. There was an investigation, but I am sure you know firsthand of the incompetence of London's police. I would like you to find his killer." Watson looked troubled.

"I am deeply sorry, miss, but three years is an awful long time. Any trail is bound to be cold by now, if you had come forward sooner…"

"My dear Watson, you speak prematurely." Holmes gaze moved to the young woman. "What is your name?"

"Isabel Jones."

"Ms. Jones, why is it that you waited so long to seek assistance?"

"I didn't have the money, I have been saving all I can." She pulled out a change purse that was hidden in the folds of her clothing and dropped it on the table that day off to the side of the couch. "It isn't much, but it's all I have." Holmes and Watson shared a look, Watson's was of pity, Holmes' of intrigue.

"Tell me, what of his murder? Where? How?" Isabel pulled a yellowed worn folder from the folds of her clothes. She smiled at the incredulous look on Watson's face.

"I thought you might prefer seeing some of the facts for yourself and I couldn't very well bring a purse." She handed the folder to Holmes. He opened it, pouring over the sheets of parchment, newspaper clippings, and photographs. Holmes looked at her. "From what I've heard you like to see things for yourself, this was the best I could do. You can't imagine the looks I got when I requested Andrew's dead body be photographed before he was moved. There are documents in there with the police findings, although I'm not sure how much use they will be. Also, newspaper articles pertaining to Andrew or anyone else involved."

"Seems like you are well on your way to solving it on your own." Holmes stated, a small amount of humor in his voice as he continued to examine the organized compilation of documents on his hands.

"I think I might be blind by subjectivity, I simply cannot fathom who would have taken his life." Her voice was solemn, her eyes flitted to the clock on the other side of the room. She rushed to her feet. "I'm sorry, but I must leave." Isabel tucked her hair back into her hat, her eyes blocked from view once again. "I'll leave that with you and return midday tomorrow to see if you have decided to take on my brother's case." Truth was Holmes had already decided, but he would tell her when she returned the following day. Isabel left and Holmes closed the folder.

"Most interesting, Watson, most interesting."

"The case of the girl?" The doctor smiled knowingly.

"Both!" Holmes exclaimed. "I've never seen anything like either. Three year old murder? Solving something like that is nearly unheard of unless the doer suddenly gains a conscious and confesses. And a working woman? She called me an arse, Watson. Have you ever heard a woman say arse?" Watson laughed with his companion.

"I believe she said 'cheeky arse', and no I can't say that I have."

"And take a look at this." Holmes handed him the folder. "She took photographs, who would've thought to do that? Documented her own observations and collected others. She's a better detective than half the employed ones in London I dare say."

"Do you fancy this woman, Holmes?" Watson asked. Holmes waved his hand dismissively.

"Of course not, my dear Watson. Just a little occupational appreciation is all. Look at the detail, the woman has a head on her shoulders, which unfortunately is more than I can say for most of those in my occupation."

"I suppose you plan to take the case then?"

"Of course! It is most intriguing and may bring a challenge after all." Watson made an approving noise.

"Most certainly, but you must give her back the money."

"And why would that be?" Watson looked as if he had been personally offended.

"It took her three years to save that, she obviously needs it more than we."

"You return her money if you with, but I should warn you, it will only prove to offend her."

"Offend? Why?"

"The woman did not come here for our sympathies. She came here for answers. In fact I'm fairly certain that she would rather us treat her like a young man than a woman. Would you return a man's money?"

"But she is not a man and as I said, she needs the money more than we do."

"And as I said, you may return it to her if you wish, it makes no difference to me." Holmes stood from his chair, grabbing his coat and hat from the hanger in the corner of the room. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to. Hold onto that folder though, Watson, I should like to see it when I return." Watson knew better that to ask where Holmes was going, he had undoubtedly found something in the file that needed a covert touch. After Holmes had left, Watson took his walking stick and the curious folder downstairs to the eating table. He spread the papers out on its surface, searching through the large amount of information. At some point Mrs. Hudson brought him a pot of tea, mumbling something to the effect of, 'becoming more and more like that rotting detective every day.' Watson made a mental note to be extra nice to their Landlady and picked up a sheet of typewriter paper. It was the police report, the first thing he had examined. Watson had come full circle then, read every clipping and document in the folder.

The front door swung open, a gust of wind and smattering of rain following the cloaked figure into the house. Holmes pushed the hood off his head and proceeded to hang his coat on the hanger next to the door. "Dreadful weather." He remarked, crossing to where Watson sat with the contents of the folder. "And what of it, old boy? Find anything of use?"

"I'm not sure. The police report was rather… unhelpful. It seems the only the pertinent information according to the police was the name of the victim and that he was shot twice in the chest." Holmes sat opposite of Watson at the table.

"Odd isn't it? Even the most incompetent of investigators put more detail into their reports."

"Are you suggesting that it was deliberate? It appears the investigation was very short."

"Well the lead detective on the case is not above taking bribes. You may be wondering where I have been. I went to the house of Straus. I broke in and made a poor and quite obvious attempt to rob the man. Now don't fret Watson, I was very well disguised. Anyway, I convinced the man not to arrest me and in turn I paid him quite a sum and he would never see me again. Most men would've been insulted by such a suggestion, but Straus nearly began to salivate. His greed is definitely great. With that said, I don't believe he would've committed murder himself for any amount. Although he could probably be persuaded to close the case without proper attention. He is a small piece of a much larger puzzle."


	2. Chapter 2

Isabel Jones returned to 221b Baker Street at noon the following day, just as she had said. She was dressed in man's clothing same as the day before. Watson and Holms were expecting her so Mrs. Hudson les her straight up to the study. "Mr. Jones, gentlemen." The landlady introduced her by the name Isabel had given her at the door.

"Shut the door, _Nanny_." Holmes said with a grain of contempt. Watson, however, smiled gratefully.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." Isabel tool a seat the same as she had the day before, waiting until the door shut to take her hat off.

"Forgive me, but this damned thing itches something terrible." Her dark hair fell down past her shoulders. She ran her fingers though the thick waves, staring at the men. "Well?"

"We will take on your brother's case." She smiled. She had been fairly certain that they would, but hearing him say it was a lifted burden.

"You have already begun then, I presume? What have you found?" Sherlock studied the woman briefly. She had some deductive powers of her own. "You visited Straus I gather?" The doctor looked surprised.

"And how would you know that?" Watson asked. Isabel shrugged.

"It's the first thing I did. Rapacious man he is."

"Yes." Holmes agreed, his curiosity heightened by this strange woman. "But not capable of murder."

"I didn't think so either, besides, I'm not entirely positive the man was intelligent enough to cover it up on his own." She answered thoughtfully and then glanced at the clock. "Thank you for doing this, I must get back to work, but if it is alright with you I'd like to come back tomorrow to see how you've progressed. I have waited three years for this and the thought of not knowing right away haunts me."

"Of course." Holmes agreed.

"If it's all the same, I'd like to come after work, so tomorrow, late afternoon?" Holmes nodded. She pushed her hair back up into her hat and stood to leave.

"Ms. Jones, I nearly forgot." Watson said, standing after her. He placed her money pouch in her palm.

"I don't understand, I thought Mr. Holmes agreed to take my case?"

"He did." Watson smiled gently. Her face darkened, a considerable change from the joy of knowing her brother was going to receive justice that had previously been there.

"I see. And do you give this sort of charity to all your clients, or just the poor women that you pity?" If she were a man, she probably would've punched him in the jaw. Instead she tossed the coin purse to Holmes, who caught it deftly. "I do not need your charity, Dr. Watson. Good day, Mr. Holmes." And with that she left the study, slamming the door behind her.

"Did I not tell you?" Watson glared in Holmes direction.

"She has no right to respond in such a way, I was simply being kind."

"Your problem is you are still thinking of her as if she is like every other woman in London. She's a woman who has lived as a man, which makes her radically different from the vain, sensitive, needy women in this city."

"You do fancy her." It wasn't a question anymore, Watson knew Holmes too well.

"She is our client, Watson, that is all." Watson made a patronizing noise.

"Mm. And how often do you see the client daily to keep them informed?"

"You are constantly complaining that I don't treat our clients well enough, now I am doing as you asked you complain further." Holmes sardonic smile was employed for the simple reason of hiding the truth, more from himself than Watson.

"I'm not complaining."

"You're not? What do you call this?"

"I never complain! How am I complaining? When do I ever complain about you practicing the violin at three in the morning, or you mess, you general lack of hygiene, or the fact that you steal my clothes?"

"Uh, we have a barter system…" Holmes interjected, but Watson wasn't finished.

"When have I ever complained about you setting fire to my rooms?"

"Our rooms." He corrected.

"The rooms!" Watson cried in frustration. "Or, or, the fact that you experiment on my dog?"

"Our dog."

"The dog!"

"Gladstone is our dog!" Holmes exclaimed. Watson hit the arm of the chair he was seated in and inhaled deeply.

"For God's sake, Holmes, why do I allow you to do that?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, old boy."

"You know how to press my buttons just enough so I forget what we were talking about in the first place."

"Right. We we're talking about the sinister comings and goings of the one called Mrs. Hudson, correct?"

"Holmes…" Watson tone was that of warning, he was not in the mood to be tested. "You know very well what we were talking about."

"Oh, that is right, we were speaking of how you offended the client."

"Infuriating man!"

"Now now, Watson. No need to get a temper, after all it was you doing the offending."

"Fine Holmes, if you wish to behave like a child and pretend you are void of feeling, be my guest." Watson left the study and Holmes glanced at Gladstone who was lying on the floor against the wall.

"Now what was that about?" The dog lifted his oversized head then laid it back on the floor. "You are most correct, Gladstone, I have a murder to solve." Despite their bickering, Watson never refused to join Holmes on case-related adventures and such. This time would be no different. The silence between the doctor and detective as they traversed the bustling streets of London spoke loudly of their argument. Watson hadn't even broken the silence to ask Holmes what exactly it was they were doing. Without warning, Holmes sidestepped, ducking into an alleyway. Watson corrected his gait and followed the curious movement of his companion. Apparently he didn't move quick enough, because a hand, calloused and muscled from the physical activity of beating other men for sport, wrapped around his wrist and yanked him further into the otherwise unoccupied alleyway. Before he could loudly protest against the rough brick that he was haphazardly thrown into, another rough hand pressed against his mouth. Watson fought the grip, but Holmes restrained him more tightly. The detective's head was turned toward where the mouth of the alley met the street. Watson clenched his jaw, but ceased his struggle, he attempted to see what Holmes was looking at, but he couldn't detect anything out of the ordinary. The detective suddenly released him. "Follow closely, Watson."

Holmes' black travelers cloak flared behind him as he stepped swiftly back onto the street. Watson stayed directly behind the darting man as he moved in a staggered path down the street. His eyes never left the other side, but Watson still didn't see what it was making Homes act so strange. The detective darted out into the street without warning, narrowly missing the front hooves of a hansom. The cabby cursed and Watson lost sight of Holmes for a moment before crossing the street himself. He made it to the other side just in time to see Holmes disappear around a corner, leading into the marketplace. He would've been greatly annoyed if he wasn't so intrigued. Watson followed around the corner, the large amount of people making it near impossible to spot Holmes. Watson walked through the crowd of people and vendors. He was just about to give up his search when a hand grabbed his coat out of nowhere and pulled him into an adjoining side street. For the second time he was pulled against a brick wall, this time Holmes was against the wall as well, his head tilted, trying to seeing around the parked carriage that obstructed their view of the rest of the street. "You really ought to keep up old boy."

Watson glared and was about to make a rude remark when the detective pushed off the wall and took off down the street. Watson followed, his aggravation heightening as he walked after Holmes. A few people loitered, but none gave a second look to the two urgent yet inconspicuous men. A man a few dozen meters ahead stopped at a door on the opposite side of the street. Holmes leaned casually against the wall and Watson followed his lead, a group of people that were walking back toward the market obscured Watson's view of the man up ahead, but he could see the man look in both directions suspiciously before opening the door and disappearing into the unseen depths. Watson realized with a gasp why his attention had been drawn to that particular man, for it wasn't a man at all, but their client, Ms. Isabel Jones. "Holmes, that's…" Holmes didn't share in his companion's surprise.

"Sh. I know." He said in return, and continued his brisk pace to the door through which Ms. Jones had went. Watson followed within a pace to insure they wouldn't he separated again once they opened the door. Holmes hesitated with his hand on the handle. "I trust you have your service revolver, Watson." Watson gave a confirming grunt and brushed his fingers over the cool bulge hidden within his coat. Holmes twisted the handle and opened the door just enough to slip through into the dimly lit room. Crated and other miscellaneous items were stacked into rows of the large storage warehouse. Without a sound Holmes walked to the far corner of the adjoining wall, a large tower of crates obscured the corner, creating a perfect hiding spot.

"What now?" Watson asked in a low whisper. They were standing shoulder to shoulder in the shadow of the crates, barely breathing.

"Now we wait." Holmes whispered back, keen eyes searching what they could see of the warehouse, ears straining to hear the slightest of sounds. A door creaked, then nothing.

"Come out with your hands where I can see 'em, or I'll shoot your bloody head off." The voice was gruff and harsh, there was no tremble or hesitation to suggest that they were dealing with an amateur criminal. Yet there was something odd and familiar about the voice. The two stepped out, hands lifted in a surrender position. The face registered surprise, then understanding, then urgency all in a matter of seconds. Watson was stuck on the former, it was Ms. Jones holding a gun as if second nature. The voice she used was different than the one implemented on the day they first met. Holmes wore the smug grin of a confirmed suspicion. "What the bloody hell are you two doing here? You must leave, now!" Her voice was whispered, but urgent as she switched back to her natural tone. Loud footsteps echoed in the large building. "Hide! Before you get us all killed!" She pushed the two of them back into the shadows just in time for another, much more male, figure step around the corner.

"What was it?" The voice was deep and spoke with menacing authority.

"Nothin', Sir. False alarm. Bloody cats." Isabel switched to the gruff clipped voice of a much less educated man as she tucked the gun into her trousers.

"Good man!" He boomed and clapped Isabel on the shoulder. "Now what of our deal?"

"Mr. Fornel is very interested in what you 'ave ta offer, Sir, but he isn't willin' to pay more than 5 gold pieces."

"That wasn't our agreement!" The large man yelled.

"And I warned 'im of just that, Sir. Told 'im ya weren't gonna be 'appy 'bout it. If you'd like, I could go back 'n 'ave another chat wit' 'im, Sir." Isabel grinned wickedly from beneath her cap, rubbing her palms together as if she would enjoy nothing more.

"That won't be necessary Jones." The man grinned. "It's only worth 2 anyway." Isabel nodded once.

"I set the meet for ta'mara ev'nin' at eight just as you said Sir. At the Punchbowl."

"Good. The crowd will be most helpful. You've done well Jones, I may have use for you in the future, keep in touch." The large man dropped a coin pouch into Isabel's hand and walked to the exit of the warehouse. She followed his path, hoping to escape before the two men caught up with her, but she knew she was hoping in vain. A hand caught her around the upper arm and spun her back. She met dark eyes filled with something akin to anger and a hint of confusions. Not an expression to often to be seen on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

"Let go of me." She growled, his grip tightened.

"You're a criminal?" He replied. Now she understood the anger, he hadn't seen this aspect of her. He was just as angry at himself. Since he insisted on not letting go, she jerked her arm back, bad idea. His grip tightened most painfully, but she couldn't let it show on her face.

"You know nothing of me, you're angry because your deductive skills aren't infallible, but do not accuse me of something I am not!" Anger radiated off the both of them, Holmes finally let her go. He snatched the pouch from her hand. She glared. "Fine, take it. I suppose mum and Elizabeth don't need to eat." Her face clearly stated what her voice didn't. She does what she had to and she won't apologize or explain herself to anyone. Watson took the money from Holmes and handed it back to Isabel.

"Then could you explain what we just saw?" She bit her tongue, she really needed these two on her side, so she'd tell them the truth.

"I assist businessmen in deals where the purchaser requires a little extra persuasion." Holmes scoffed.

"You almost make that sound legal."

"For you information, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, there are other ways to persuade a man than with physical threat, although you hypocrisy is infuriating considering I can see you are no stranger to physical violence, both giving and receiving it…"

"For sport…"

"Irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?"

"Yes indeed! I do not physically harm to persuade so it is irrelevant why you do." Their tempers were growing once again.

"Ah I see!" Holmes exclaimed mockingly. "And this persuading you do, to what end?" She glared at the man, her temper getting the best of her.

"You have no right to demand to know these things! I do not have to explain myself to you! I hired you to find my brother's murderer. Not mettle in things that are none of your business!"

"I have every right to know these things. I will not work for a criminal to catch a criminal."

"Do not call me that again! I am not a criminal, how dare you place me in the same category as a murderer!"

"You have given me no reason to believe that you aren't one, a crime is a crime, regardless of severity." Isabel glowered, this man was getting under her skin.

"The people I work for are not criminals and neither am I. Mr. Greenburg, the man who just left, is a fine jewelry dealer. I was to convince Mr. Fornel into purchasing a gem he really didn't need for a too much money. Usually I'm employed to collect from un-paying customers. Nothing illegal, I am _not_ a criminal." She ground out. Holmes still didn't believe her, she could see it in his face.

"Then if you would be so kind as to explain you behavior just now!" The overtly polite words were tainted with sarcasm.

"Simply because he believes Mr. Fornel was persuaded by implementing less than legal tactics doesn't mean that is what happened. For an intelligent man, you are behaving quite foolishly. Do I appear physically imposing to you? Would a man of considerable stature be intimidated by me?"

"Perhaps not, but a revolver can do much convincing even if the wielder is slight of build." The detective eyed the concealed weapon she had stuffed into her trousers. Isabel brought the weapon into plain sight, holding it as non-threateningly as such a lethal weapon can be. Isabel's demeanor changed completely.

"Threat of word and gesture can be just as convincing as physical harm. As you have said, I am a good actress. I am not proud of what I do by any means, Mr. Holmes, but it pays well enough to support my family and I will not apologize for that. Nothing I do is illegal and I am, however, sincerely sorry for not informing you of these things. I only feared it would cause you to be hesitant to solve this crime against my brother." Holmes' eyes studied her, he seemed satisfied with this answer. "You have no reason to trust me, but I am not asking you to trust me, Sir." The resolved issue seemed to bring something else to the forefront of Holmes' mind.

"How is it that you came to the conclusion that I box on occasion?" Isabel chuckled.

"I'd hardly say 'on occasion'. There are scares on all eight of your knuckles, the middle finger of your right hand is still scabbed, so you've fought in the last two weeks or so. And what with the fading bruises on your jaw and what I can see of you clavicle, I'd say you get as good as you give." Both men stared at her. "Well there's no need to look so surprised, it's really quite basic. It's not like I said the good doctor was in the Afghan War, or that that you play the volin, quite well, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock's eyes widened.

"This is most intriguing. Would you care to explain?" Interest filled his dark eyes, replacing the slight shock that had been there mere moments before.

"My observations are limited to people I must say. I could never look at simple clues and make grand conjectures about a crime, but I'll answer your question, although I'm sure you already know the answer." Isabel glanced at Watson. "You have the posture of a military man, from how you shave to the way you walk. You're overall neatness and sense of hygiene speaks to this as well considering the stark contrast of those whose company you keep." This earned a smile from Watson, Holmes seemed less amused. "Given your age, the Afghan war is the most likely." She looked at Holmes. "The callous on the underside of your jaw can only be made by one aforementioned instrument, and although the ones on your fingers are obscured by your masochistic hobby, the assumption was not difficult to make. And obviously you play well, or you would not play at all, correct?"

"Indeed." Watson seemed amused once again by her observations, Holmes however seemed skeptical.

"What is it that makes you say that? Perhaps I am only just learning to play, or simply lack talent." Isabel smiled wryly.

"Ah but you are not the sort to take up such a beautiful and demanding hobby on a whim, nor the sort to defile an instrument so deserving of genius with mediocrity."

"And what would you know of what 'sort' I am?' This earned another sardonic grim from Isabel.

"You do not like it, do you Mr. Holmes? The tables have been turned and now you are the one being stripped bare of your own personal thoughts and aspects only for them to be laid out for others to see. And by a woman no less." She had to chuckle at how not funny it was. His eyes studied her carefully and eventually betrayed a deep curiosity. "That curiosity of what sort I am, Mr. Holmes, is why I unnerve you so much." Holmes seemed to be mulling over something within himself as Watson witnessed the exchange with great wonder.

"What else could you tell of my companion? Forgive me Holmes, but it's not often you're the object of observations, I find it fascinating." Holmes grimaced and glared minutely at the doctor, who didn't really seem to care.

"I think I've done enough for today, no need to crush the man's quite fantastic ego all in one day."

"Please do, Ms. Jones, it seems that you simply do not know anything more to say of me."

"Believe what you wish, what is it you said? 'It's bad for business,' and I still need you to find my brother's killer."

"Coward." Isabel's jaw clenched.

"Do not push me, Mr. Holmes."

"I am doing no such thing, only speaking truths as I see them."

"Very well, would you like to know what truths I see? You grew up with money, your parents were very rich."

"Very good." His mocking tone increased her building frustration just enough.

"Very rich and very awful to you, only parents could screw a person up so badly." That one seemed to hit home, but he played it off with another sarcastic comment. "Of course you had someone there to protect you from most of their destructive abuse, probably an older brother, maybe an uncle. Though you keep him at arm's length just like everyone else in your life, even Watson, because you're so afraid that if anyone gets close enough they'll see through your self-built protective ego that guards your very being and see that you really are just that scared little boy who wants his parent to love him." Isabel knew as the final word left her lips that she had over spoken in her aggravation. Holmes reacted predictably, and understandably, as anyone confronted with such an intimate, personal observation. With anger. She could see it throughout his every feature. Perhaps she should have seen his next move coming, but it was so unpredictable even in his angered state. The bone of his knuckle connected with the side of her face, causing her head to snap back. She felt the fiery pain spread up her jaw, informing her that she would be badly bruised and quite sore, but it was not broken. She cradled her jaw in one hand, the metal swelled in her mouth. Watson made a move toward her as a concerned doctor, but she held up her other hand, stopping him. The anger that had gripped Holmes' body had now dissipated and was replaced with the horror of the realizations that he had just punched a woman. Watson, after the initial shock and concern, was equally horrified and more so enraged. "I suppose that was well deserved, I should not have said so much." She spat blood off to the side and flexed her jaw.

"Deserved? You must be bloody joking! Holmes…!" The doctor seemed too angry for words.

"Watson is right." Holmes tone was now apologetic. "That was horrific beyond words."

"You should not have hit me, that is true, but we both let our anger get the best of us and the worst came out. What is done is done and what has been said had been said." Isabel pulled a watch from her pocket and flipped open the lid. "Now if you'll excuse me gentlemen. This whole encounter has me running quite late." Without another word, Isabel was off, to somewhere one could only guess.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Isabel went on to her next job, trying to rid her mind of all thoughts of Sherlock Holmes and their previous encounter. This proved difficult however considering the past three years of her life had been dedicated to finding Andrew's murderer and now Holmes was completely evolved in that aspect of her life, and gratefully so, but the man was so infuriating. It wasn't that he had hit her. She had been hit before and this time she could objectively say that she had deserved nothing less, she did have the tendency to piss people off. It was his arrogance and hypocrisy that got her blood boiling. He was allowed to publically proclaim private issues of other people, but no one was allowed to talk about his issues. Not only are other people not allowed to speak of them, but no one else besides Holmes could possibly posses the ability to see such issues. Isabel found the whole conundrum positively maddening. In fact most of the basic skills that Holmes incorporated in his detective work are attributes found in most women, commonly referred to as 'woman's intuition' and even more commonly disregarded. Of course Holmes was a bright man and had a rare gift in the proficiency of his skill set, but it was not as if he were some infallible god. Simply a skilled yet flawed man with a god-complex.

After completing her second and final job for the day, which involved recovering some stolen merchandise and returning it to the rightful owner, Isabel stopped at the market to pick up dinner for her family and, remembering that Elizabeth was wearing holes in her shoe's, went to the shoemaker. She provided the kind old shoemaker with the dimensions of her sister's feet then headed home. She stopped at a friend's house a block or so from her home as she did everyday to change from her workman's disguise. If her mother knew how she provided for them, Isabel would never hear the end of it. She stepped through the door of her family's modest dwelling, expertly balancing two brown bags in her arms. "Elizabeth, Mum, I'm home!" She called, but to her surprise, there was no response. She set the bags down on the table and walked further into the house, calling her two family member's names repetitively. Under further inspection she found that neither were home. Odd. She went back into the kitchen and searched for a note or something. Her mother wouldn't leave without telling her. Isabel found a note, but not from her mother as she had expected. It was written using a typewriter and had no signature. She knew who it was from though, in a roundabout way. For the note read:

**We have your sister and mother. If you want to see them again let Andrew rest in peace and stop investigating his death. There will be a hansom cab waiting on the north end of Concord in front of the Postal Service Building at noon tomorrow. Give the folder containing all documents and photographs to the cabman and your family will be returned to you. Failure to do so will have dire consequences. No Police.**

Isabel creased the note in half, slipping it into the top of her bodice as she had no pockets, and immediately set out for 221B Baker Street. She had to get the folder back. It did not take long, as it was only a few blocks away, easily traversed on foot. She knocked urgently on the door, to be greeted by Mrs. Hudson as per usual. "My apologies for the intrusion, but is Mr. Sherlock Holmes in?" The woman nodded.

"Yes Miss, are you a client?" Isabel nodded after a moment of hesitation, she had forgotten that she wasn't Mr. Jones at that moment.

"Yes. It's quite urgent."

"I'll show you right up." Mrs. Hudson led her up to the study and knocked on the door. "Mr. Holmes, a visitor, Sir."

"Come in, then." Came his mildly annoyed voice. Isabel took a step in and waited until Mrs. Hudson had shut the door to move in any further.

"Isabel, I hardly recognized you. What can we do for you?" Watson asked.

"I need the folder back." The urgency and no doubt fear in her voice had undoubtedly been noticed by Holmes.

"Why? What has happened?" The detective asked. Isabel was torn, the note had said no police. He technically wasn't police, but was she willing to take a chance on semantics? "What is it Isabel?" The concern on Holmes' face was something that surpassed normalcy for clientele, but Isabel didn't have the thinking room to ponder that observation. Out of sheer helplessness and not knowing what else to do, she pulled the piece of typewriter paper out of the top of her dress and handed it to Holmes.

"I found this when I arrived home today." Holmes read the slip of paper, then handed it to Watson, so they were all on the same page.

"I've learned all I need from the photographs and documents you provided me, but this note brings something else into light." Holmes observed.

"How so? There is no signature or remarkable markings." Watson questioned curiously.

"Simple, my dear Watson, because it was printed by the same machine as the police report. You see every typewriter has wear marks unique to only itself. Both documents have identical prominent wear marks on 'e', 'r', and 'a'."

"You're saying a policeman killed my brother?"

"More likely someone of higher rank killed your brother, but a policeman is most certainly involved in the cover-up." Watson had a look of apprehension.

"We must be more careful from here on out, Holmes, whomever this person is, they obviously have deep connections at their disposal to keep the truth hidden. For seemingly any cost at that." Isabel had no time to entertain thoughts of apprehension or scandal, she had more prevailing threats to deal with.

"Could I have my folder back then, Sirs, and the two of you can get to being careful." Her emotions were too unstable to repress the annoyance in her voice.

"She's right, Watson, this is no time for caution. We must strike first." The detective's eyes glimmered with the thrill of the chase.

"What are you thinking Holmes?" Watson asked, suspicious of that all too familiar look in Holmes' eyes. The detective pondered simply not answering, as was his usual response, but for the plan to work he would need both Isabel and Watson to assist him.

"We will return the folder as per directed by the note. Your mother and sister will undoubtedly be in the hansom, after the cabby allows them to get out, you will distract the man under any means possible and I will slip into the carriage. The cabman is just a pawn, but he will have to take the folder to his employer at some point. Watson, you should follow me in another cab, but make certain the cabman isn't obvious about it." Isabel was instantly relieved to hear the Mr. Sherlock Holmes was the kind of detective she thought he was. He wouldn't let this formidable lead get away.

"Would you prefer to hold on to the folder then? Or should I take it?" Holmes gathered all the papers back into the folder.

"You should take it." He held it out for her to take. "And we'll meet you at Concord tomorrow at noon. As little contact as possible will be best." Isabel thanked him and left the study, hiding the folder properly in the folds of her bodice before heading home. All she could do was worry the floor with her nervous habitual pacing, eventually going back to her documents to search for anything that she could've missed. Needless to say, sleep was a necessity she could neither afford nor avoid that night. She perhaps acquired two hours of fitful rest, before rising once again to study the files on Andrew's death by candlelight. After daylight had brightened the dull grays of the house into its natural colors, she prepared to go out. There were a few reasons she had to go out as a woman. Not only was the cabman expecting a woman to return the folder, but if she was to see her mother then being dressed as a man was not an option. There was only one reason, however, that she had to go out looking somewhat of a harlot.

It was simply really. Holmes needed her to distract the cabby and the easiest way to catch a man off guard and gain his undivided attention for a few minutes was with the body God gave her. She wasn't thrilled about it, but she'd do just about anything to get her family back and find the coward who killed her brother. Beneath the bodice of her most form accentuating dress was a corset that was a size to small, that limited her breathing quite painfully, but pushed her breasts high into view and minimized her waist. She pinned her hair up on the back of her head, letting a few locks drop around her face and donned a hat of black lace to match the dress of vivid red, black, and crème. She applied a heavy amount of lip and eye paint, then glanced at her reflection in the looking glass. She look just as she had planned, ridiculously female and ridiculously revealing.

Thankfully the specified Postal Building wasn't far, Isabel has grown unaccustomed to the restricting garments of female dress attire and desperately wished she wore the freely-moving male work clothes. She arrived at the North end of Concord just as the sun was at its highest point in the sky. She touched her flat abdomen instinctively where the folder was hidden and scanned the bustling for the hansom that held Elizabeth and her mother. Instead she found the eyes of one Sherlock Holmes. He was on the opposite side of the road and quite obviously shocked by her attire. His brown discerning eyes held intrigue well. Not seeing Watson in his immediate vicinity, Isabel continued searching the street with her eyes. She found the doctor on her side of the street, a ways further down the road. A hansom occasionally turned onto the street from intersecting crossroads, but none had stopped in front of the building and Isabel was starting to get anxious. Every so often she'd look at Holmes, knowing he could read her anxiety and although it was a bit laughable, his reassuring glances eased her nerves a little. It seemed like it had been forever, but Isabel was sure it had only been a few minutes in reality. Finally one of the carriages pulled out in front of her, stopping on the side of the street, and the cabman stepped down from his perch.

"Are you Ms. Jones?" Isabel gave a small nod, pulling on her oncoming character like she would a pair of trousers.

"Oh yes!" She spoke in a high-pitched and slightly unintelligent tone. She pulled the file out from the folds of her dress, well aware that the man was following her every move and getting a good look at her chest. "Please let me mum and sister go. I dunno what I'd do without them." She cried pitifully, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief. The man gave a twisted smile and snatched the folder from her hand before turning to open the hansom door. Her mother and sister moved swiftly from the carriage into the bright sun. Isabel hugged both of them briefly. Whispering, " Head home. I'll explain everything later," to her mum. When her family was a few steps down the road, Isabel gave a shrill cry and threw her arms around the unsuspecting cabman. "Thank you sir!" She sobbed, squeezing the man, who didn't seem to mind, tightly. She caught sight of Holmes creeping around the backside of the hansom toward the still open door.

Isabel gritted her teeth, mentally preparing herself for what she was about to do. She loosened her grip on the man slightly and pressed her lips sloppily against the man's, almost as if she were intoxicated. As soon as she was sure Holmes was securely inside the carriage she pulled away from him and stumbled down the street toward the spot where she had seen Watson. Checking behind her every few moment to see when the cabby finally had his back to her, she took off into a run. Watson had already caught a hansom. She made it just before the cab left the side of the road, throwing open the door and leaping into the cabin, landing solidly on the bench across from Watson.

"Isabel? What are you doing?"

"Holmes told me to meet you in the hansom." She lied.

"He didn't tell me…"

"Does he ever tell you everything?" Her lie had just enough truth to be believable, Watson seemed to but it. "I'm sorry to ask, doctor, but I fear if I stay in this corset one more moment I may pass out. Would you mind…" She made a circular motion with her hand, requesting him to turn away.

"Of course." He acquiesced, turning his head and shielding his eyes with his hand as a perfect gentleman. She turned her body in the opposite way he turned his and attempted to undo the bindings that held the back of her dress together. No matter which way she stretched, she couldn't seem to get it undone. How the hell had she put the bloody thing on? It probably had helped that she had been able to stand straight up and wasn't in a bumpy carriage.

"Sorry, just a moment." She tried and tried, but it was no use. She simply could not get it on her own anymore than she could leave it on any longer. "I apologize sincerely, but would you mind undoing the back?" Isabel kept her back to him as he gently untied enough strings for her to get it, then covered his eyes once again. She took off the corset completely, taking in a deep breath for the first time since putting the damn thing on. She fixed her dress and tied it up all she could before requesting Watson's help once again. "Thank you, Watson. Finally I can breathe." She placed the corset appropriately out of sight. "I have one more favor to ask, do you have a handkerchief? I believe that cabby stole mine." Watson smiled and pulled a square of delicate white cloth from his pocket. Isabel moistened a corner of the cloth with her tongue and rubbed the color from her lips and eyelids before handing it back to Watson. "Thank you." He gave a small nod and folded the cloth properly before tucking it into his pocket. "You wouldn't happen to have a looking glass as well would you?" She smiled jokingly. "I fear I now have paint smudged on my face."

"There is nothing on your face." He confirmed with a stoic smile of a military man.

"You're positive? Because if you are simply being polite and I go around the rest of the day with paint on my face…" Watson studied her face more thoroughly.

"Yes, positive."

"Good." Watson smiled, Isabel looked at him curiously. "What?"

"Nothing, just Holmes was right. You are different."

"How so?"

"Well for starters you just removed two things that most women wear at all times." Isabel shrugged.

"If most women want to go around looking like toffers and not being able to breathe that's up to them." The look on Watson's face reminded her that 'toffer' wasn't a term for polite company. "Sorry, I grew up with my mother calling my father's girlfriends that. I forget it's actual meaning sometimes." Watson's expression softened.

"Right."

"Besides, Holmes has no right to be judgmental. He's quite different himself." Watson grinned.

"He wasn't judging you, Isabel. He was complimenting you."

The intensity of the situation managed to suck an more conversation from the two and silence fell over them except for the constant rhythm of the horses hooves and creaking wheels. Eventually the rocking of the carriage came to a stop. Watson motioned for her to stay seated and open the door a sliver. He peaked out, then pushed the door open further.

"The hansom stopped up on the right, sir. No one's gotten in or out yet." Isabel heard the cabbie say.

"Should we get out?" Isabel whispered for really no reason, but it seemed appropriate in the situation. Watson's head reappeared.

"No. We wait." The door clicked shut and Watson returned to his seat. They say in complete silence, Isabel had the feeling Watson was listening for any outside noises just as intently as she was. There was a slight knocking, like two knuckles against hallow wood and the door creaked open.

"Watson, we must move quickly!" Holmes' voice was whispered, but urgent. His eyes darted to Isabel's, then back to Watson. "What is she doing here?" Watson looked confused.

"She said you told her…" Holmes waved he hand impatiently.

"No matter. No time, we must go now. I'll direct the cabbie to take you home." He aimed the last sentence at Isabel. She scowled.

"I am not going home." She stated defiantly. Holmes appeared aggravated, but they had already wasted too much time.

"Fine. Hurry, hurry!" He rushed them from the cab and into the shadows created by the high walls of the alleyway.

"You lied to me." Watson stated accusingly as they stepped otherwise silently behind Holmes.

"Nothing get's past you, doctor." Isabel responded with a small amount of sarcasm, smirking wryly.

"Sh." Holmes hushed them sharply, but Watson was too perturbed to comply, so he spoke in a lower voice.

"I thought you were generally honest, I suppose I was wrong." His spoke crossly, his words sharp despite the soft tone of his voice.

"So because I told one small lie, that means I am not a generally honest person? Tell me, good doctor, if I had not lied, what would you have done?"

"I would've insisted you get out of the cab and head home."

"Precisely." She said as if he had made her point for her. "So you probably would've lost Holmes' hansom and this plan would've fallen apart. The small lie was a necessary infringement."

"If the two of you don't shut up…!" Holmes trailed off, allowing his threatening tone and wild gesture speak for themselves. Isabel and Watson both fell into silence as they crossed the alleyway and slipped through a doorway. The detective explained swiftly in very hushed tones that the cabman had taken the folder into the building just a few moments prior to him retrieving the two of them. The darkness that cloaked the inside of the building was a bit off putting considering that it was broad daylight out, as bright as it gets in London. Faint shadows of passageways were visible in the different shades of gray. The hall they were in ended into a single door frame that opened into a large downward spiraling staircase.

A floating orb of light came into view just as they came to the doorway, illuminating the face and build of a thuggish looking man climbing up the stairs, his beady little eyes searching the darkness. Holmes flattened himself in the slight corner made by the doorway and adjoining wall, Watson doing the same on the opposite side. Isabel suddenly wished she had worn something a little more neutral, she shrugged to herself, deciding to make the most of it. She stood so she would be in plain view when the brute walked into the hall, just far enough down that he would stop just a few paces past the detective and doctor's hiding spots. She put on her most convincing flirtatious smile. The man entered the hall with the lantern out in front of him, hesitating in the exact spot that Isabel had planned.

"Hey big fella." She purred seductively. Holmes' right hook caught the confused man completely off guard, but he attempted a retaliation that was easily parried by Holmes. Watson wrapped his arm around the thug's neck from behind and squeezed just long enough for him to fall unconscious. As Holmes and Watson propped the man's limp weight against the wall, tucking him into the shadows, Isabel scooped up the lantern that had fallen from the man's grip. She ripped a strip of red material from her dress and wrapped it around the glass of the lantern, making it dim enough that it wouldn't light their faces, but would still provide a baring through the darkness. Holmes seemed to know exactly where he was going, as he moved fluidly and quickly, without hesitation. They came to a hall that was brightly lit and had only one wall, the other side a railing that that looked down into a well-lit room. The lookout at that post received the same treatment as the first one had. A table was at the center of the fairly-sized area, a half-dozen men sat around it, playing a card game. The cabbie entered the room just then, Isabel's folder in hand, and made his way for the table. His nervous voice interrupted the gambling men and he handed the fine to the man with the largest pile of winnings sitting in front of him. Inaudible hushed words were exchanged and the cabbie left. Isabel studied the detective's calculating eyes.

"What now Holmes?" Her voice was so low it was almost non-existent. The man was obviously torn. These were experienced criminals that outnumbered them 2 to 1 and were very likely armed to the teeth while they only had one revolver between the three of them. Isabel grunted with impatience and turned back to the unconscious man, lying on the floor. She began to undress him.

"What are you doing?" Holmes demanded.

"I can't go down there as a woman, especially one they're likely to recognize." She managed to remove the man's overcoat and waistcoat and began unbuttoning the shirt.

"I sent word to Lastrade, the police will be here within a half of an hour, we should wait until then." Holmes obviously wasn't one to wait for an incompetent detective to show up, so what was stopping him now Isabel wondered.

"We don't have that long. What if they decide they have what they need and clear out? What if they get away?"

"You are not going down there." Watson said as if it were the end of the conversation.

"Voker Romeny? Either of you?" _Voker Romeny_ was a way of asking wither a person spoke Thieves' Cant or not. By the blank expression on Watson's face, Isabel knew he had no idea what she meant. Holmes' face on the other hand displayed something that resembled recognition.

"Not well enough to hold on a conversation." Holmes answered. Isabel tugged each shoe off, then loosened his belt buckle. She paused, shoving her right sleeve up enough so both men could see the tattoo that inked her forearm.

"You have one of those?" Holmes shook his head in the negative and she yanked off the unconscious man's pants, leaving him only in his skivvies. "Then it will be me who goes down there. Barging in would mean death for us all. I'll give a good distraction, waste as much time I can. We will have the man who killed my brother in irons and we will all make it out alive. Probably." She added the last bit with a shrug. "Now turn around, and no peaking." Watson and Holmes both turned as she directed. She was able to get her dress off and pulled on the man's trousers, they were far too big, but she held then in place by tightening the belt as far as it would go. The shirt was big as well, but that worked to her advantage, as it hid her female curves. Suspenders were next. She sucked on her teeth, thinking. "Watson, your waistcoat please." The two men faced her once again.

"Excuse me?"

"I can't go down there wearing the exact same clothes as one of his thugs, don't you think that would be a little suspicious? So your waistcoat, _please._" Watson rolled his eyes, clearly still uncomfortable with her going down there by herself, but removed his jacket and handed her his waistcoat nevertheless. "And your coat please, Holmes." No argument, but a small amount of concern in his features as he handed her his coat. Isabel took off her bonnet and glanced at Watson, who rolled his eyes once again, but handed over the hat. She positioned it so it shrouded her eyes then unbuttoned and rolled up the sleeves of both the coat and shirt, so both forearms were clearly visible.

"Hold on." Holmes whispered. He stooped down and ran his hands over the floor, straightening once again and smudged the dirt across her jaw and upper lip. "The bruise actually helps." His tone was light, but his eyes spoke of an apology. Watson took out his revolver, offering it to her.

"You should take this." But she declined.

"You two will need it before I do." Isabel winked. "Don't come in unless I take off my hat, or the police arrive." She headed down the hall to the stairs and began her decent into the snake pit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Isabel decided that the best way to go about her task was to be as abrupt and aggressive as possible. She needed to earn the respect of these men and take a few of them down in the process. Her plan was simple, she'd pretend to be looking for an 'in' into their little corporation. She would have to prove herself so naturally she'd have to fight a few of them, but none of them would be shooting at her, that is, if everything goes according to plan. She strode casually, but confidently into the room as if she belonged there. Pulling an extra chair away from the wall and sitting with the back of the chair at her chest, right next to the leader of the little group. "'Ello Mr. Smithy." She had overheard his name from the few minutes they spent eavesdropping. The five other men all went for their weapons, eyes on their boss, waiting for an order. Smithy held up a hand.

"At ease gentlemen." There was a certain amount of dangerous intrigue in his eyes. "Who are you, boy-o?" Isabel gave a mischievous grin.

"'Pends who ya ask."

"I'm askin' you." The severeness of his face intensified. This man did not like being played with, or repeating himself. She could respect that.

"Tommy."

"Is that right?" The man knew it wasn't her real name, well two could play at that game.

"Yeah it is, _Smithy_." His face said 'fair enough', so he moved on.

"What's your business then? What'd you do to my guards?"

"I want in." The man laughed as if she had just told a hilarious joke. The other men joined him, but Isabel simply grinned.

"In?" He questioned, his face suddenly turning serious. "You break into my dwelling and have the gull to tell me you want in?"

"Yes, Sir." She said decisively, making sure to add the 'sir' in order to imply that she respected the chain of command.

"And here I was think' yer a mandrake, you've got bloody big ones, ya do." The man was pondering something. "What'd ya get the broad arrows for?" Smithy gestured to the tattoo on her forearm.

"Did a nickel in the Yard for vamp."

"Ah, a tealeaf, eh? Lemme guess, a tooler?" It was a trick question, no pickpocket is put away for five years, so did she have the gull to say he was wrong then?

"Tooling mostly, yeah, but it ain't what earned me the iron pen." Smithy's face told her to elaborate. "Had me eye on a toffken, would've gotten away with the job too, but I made a rookie mistake. Trusted me partner. Rozzers only caught me the once though, 'aven't been back since."

Holmes and Watson watched the exchange from their spots on the hall above the romm. The detective smiled in amusement. He couldn't deny the woman's acting abilities. "Do you have any idea what's going on?" Watson asked, his eyebrows scrunched together as he attempted to decipher the thief jargon.

"From what I can gather, she is a thief named Tommy who spent five years in Scotland Yard for robbing a rich man's home. She's creating a background for herself, sounds like she's a pickpocket and had only been caught once by the police." Watson nodded, catching on.

"Because her partner turned her in." Holmes nodded in conformation, attentively still listening to the conversation below. His face briefly displayed amusement.

"I do believe she just insulted his mother." His face straightened, recalling the seriousness of the situation. "Daft woman's gonna get herself killed."

"Should we go down there?" Watson asked. Holmes shook his head in the negative.

"We'll never her the end of it if we go in prematurely." He hesitated. "He just called her a fool." He watched more intently for a few moments, then sighed with relief. She had used the insult as a distraction to pick his pocket and prove she was good enough to be in his little gang, apparently it had worked to some extent. The man seemed slightly impressed.

Isabel twiddled the six-pence that she had stolen directly from Smithy's pocket between her fingers, grinning smugly.

"You've convinced me ya can steal, boy-o, but yer a scrawny lit'le fella, can't have ya holdin' us up on the job 'r getting us caught if ya know what I mean."

"I handle meself fine in a scrap. Could take any o' these gulpy glocks 'ere." With a smirk and curt nod from Smithy, Isabel knew what was going to happen next. A hand grabbed the back of her coat and yanked her backward off her chair. She was barely able to gain her balance before just barely able to gain her balance before blocking the fist coming for her jaw.

Watson watched Isabel get yanked violently from her seat with an alarmed expression. He instantly felt the need to assist her, so he stepped toward the stairs, only to be stopped by Holmes' hand grabbing his upper arm. "She needs help." The detective shook his head.

"Wait." Unable to tear his eyes from the happenings, they both watched as Isabel gained her footing and blocked and dodged blow after blow. "She antagonized them purposely."

"Why?" Watson asked incredulously.

"She's proving her character's worth and taking them down one by one without them even realizing the true threat she is. It's quite ingenious really. It's what I would've done." Flexibility and swiftness were definitely two factors that gave her a great advantage despite her small frame. She moved with litheness and speed that her opponent couldn't compete with and eventually wore himself down trying to catch her, to the point that she could land a few solid hits and have the man prone on the floor unable to get up. The first two were easy enough for her, but the third was a bit more of a challenge. He was a great man and although Isabel could out dance him all day, he didn't tire easily and had a greater range of motion that she failed to compensate for at first. He got one good hit in that literally sent her flying backward until her back made contact with the wall.

She placed a hand on top her hat, Holmes figured to both steady herself and ensure her identity was still properly concealed, and inched to her feet. The woman could obviously take a hit as there she was, right back in the fight. The man managed to get a few more hits in, neither nearly as powerful as the first, before she heave-kicked him square in the chest. Holmes knew from experience that the man was not getting up, likely having a few broken ribs. But Isabel was starting to wear down, understandable sense she had already taken on three men much larger than herself and was moving onto a fourth. She made no move to take off her hat though. Prideful woman really was going to get herself killed. Holmes glanced at Watson, it seemed they were sharing the same thought. It was time to go it. They moved swiftly and readily into the room, Holmes going straight for the man who had just landed his knuckles squarely against Isabel's jaw. "What are you doing?" Isabel hissed, angry they had blown her cover.

"Saving you arse." Holmes retorted, delivering a final blow to the man's face, causing him to fall to the ground.

"I had it under control." She said crossly.

"You could just be grateful instead of being so damn obstinate." Holmes suggested with a smirk. Gunfire started and was reciprocated by Holmes, who still had Watson's service revolver. Watson and Isabel both grabbed guns from unconscious thugs. The shots drew another half-dozen thugs to the room that had been on the lookout in other parts of the building. Isabel's hat fell off sometime in the middle of the brawl, but that really no longer mattered. The three of them were doing fairly well, fending off the bad guys, that was until an arm wrapped around Isabel's shoulders from behind, bracing her against a man's body, the sharp edge of a blade pressed against the skin of her throat.

"I thought there was something especially female about you." Smithy's rough voice was hot in her ear. "That's enough!" His voice boomed loudly, causing Isabel to cringe. Everything stopped. "Alright, you two, drop yer weapons." Smithy demanded toward Watson and Holmes. Seeing them both about to comply, Isabel protested loudly.

"Don't!" But Smithy silenced her by pressing the knife tighter against her skin.

"Do it or I'll spill all her blood right here on the floor." Isabel pleaded with them with her eyes to keep their weapons. All of them being helpless wasn't going to help anything. The doctor and detective seemed to understand this as well and thusly hesitated. The knife seared through her skin and Isabel felt the warm trickle of blood down her neck from the superficial wound. "Now!" The small amount of blood was enough to make both men drop their weapons. What she was going to do next would've been much easier if she had had some back-up. She snapped her head backward into Smithy's chin as forcefully as she could. The hand that held the knife to her throat loosened its hold and Isabel went to pull away, but the arm he had around her shoulders tightened painfully at the movement. "Bloody hell!" He cursed loudly in her ear and pressed the tip of the blade into her neck. "That was a mistake, darlin'." Smithy growled. "Now yer comin' with me." With Smithy's attention now fully on her, Holmes moved with the swiftness of a desperate man, lifting Watson's gun from the floor and firing a single, steady shot. Blood sprayed the side of Isabel's face, Smithy's now lifeless body falling into a heap on the floor. The injured and limping thugs scattered like cockroaches in the light, no honor among thieves.

"Nice shot." Isabel stated, staring in shock at the man that laid on the ground with a large hole in the side of his forehead, still gushing blood. She sensed more than saw Holmes walk toward her. He used the cuff of his shirt to wipe the blood off her face.

"I'll have a good time of it, explaining this to Lestrade." Holmes spoke in his normal way, making light of dense situations, but then added something more. "Are you alright?" Isabel tore her eyes away from Smithy's body, looking at Holmes, trying not to appear as shaken up as she felt.

"Fine." She said briefly, mostly because she didn't trust her voice with any more than the one word. Holmes gave her a look that was difficult to decipher in her fuzzy state of mind.

"Watson, you should check the cut on her neck." Isabel shook her head in protest, clearing her throat.

"No, it's just a flesh wound. Really." Her voice trembled lightly, she clenched her jaw and sucked in a breath. He gave her a look that spoke clearly of concern. "I'm fine." She said with determination, the tremble forcibly removed from her voice. He gave a small nod, but she could tell that he didn't believe her.

"Holmes!" A loud booming voice echoed through the room, expressing great annoyance. Holmes' face transitioned to the slight mocking grin he wore so frequently.

"Lestrade! Just in time, if you send your men 'round back, I do believe you'll find ten or so wanted criminals." Lestrade directed his men accordingly. He surveyed the scene from the cut on Isabel's neck to the dead man on the floor.

"What in God's name did you do this time?" Lestrade asked. Holmes played innocent.

"I'm certain I have no idea what you're talking about Lestrade. We stumbled on this thief's cove and sent word to you, just as we are supposed to." Lestrade didn't even look a little convinced.

"Right, and what about the dead body, hm?" His tone was a bit patronizing. Isabel didn't like him already.

"He was going to kill me, they had no choice." She stated matter-of-factly. Lestrade looked at her. He had nerve sizing her up as he did, given the man barely passed five foot tall and looked like he had a better chance of tackling a twelve course meal than a woman. Then Isabel remembered that she was dressed in man's clothing and probably looked like death warmed over with the beating she had just taken.

"And who are you?" He asked, borderline rude. The man was judging her. She opened her mouth to give a smart ass answer, but was cut off by Holmes.

"She's our client, got herself mixed up in a bit o' trouble that we were helping her out of." Lestrade seemed to be analyzing his response.

"Which involved killing a man?"

"As we already said, it was in defense of an innocent that I shot him." Watson backed up. Isabel figured the doctor took the blame for shooting the man since it was his gun and Lestrade seemed more likely to let it go for what it was. For being somewhat in the same profession the two sure held a large about of disdain for each other.

"Alright, it seems you three are finished here, I think it's high time you get out of here." Lestrade still looked suspicious, but Holmes gladly took the out since there was no more information to gather from the place.

"We'll show ourselves out then." Lestrade seemed skeptical of the sudden agreeability from Holmes, but took it in stride. As they went to leave Holmes made sure to take the folder from the table as Lestrade had his back to them, examining Smithy's dead body. The cabbie Watson and Isabel had taken to the cove was still waiting in the alley, apparently he was too noisy to leave, which actually worked to their favor. Holmes offered a hand to help her into the carriage, she took it although it felt quite ridiculous since she was dressed as a man. Watson and Holmes sat on the opposite bench, their broad shoulders making it a difficult task to share the seat. Isabel suddenly let out a laugh as the cab jerked into motion, receiving a few odd looks from her companions.

"What do you reckon Lestrade will think when he finds that half naked thug and my dress?" This earned a humorous smile from both men. Isabel's expression went from humorous to serious.

"What is it?" Holmes asked, noting the change in her face.

"I can't go home dressed as a man, we must go back and get my dress."

"I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will have something suitable for you." Watson offered calmingly.

"Your landlady? I couldn't intrude like that…" Holmes waved his hand, cutting her off.

"Nonsense, Nanny would be happy to have a doll to dress up. Besides, Watson really should give you a proper check up, you took quite a beating in there and if I'm not mistaken, that cut on your neck is still bleeding." Isabel touched her neck, pulling back her fingers to see, sure enough, that they were coated in fresh blood. Odd, it didn't really even hurt. She made a curious noise.

"Would you look at that?" She said a little surprised.

"Why didn't you take off your hat sooner?" Isabel chose to ignore the fact that Holmes' question sounded more like an accusation.

"Honestly, I was hoping I'd get the chance to rough the man who killed my brother up a bit." Holmes expression spoke of amusement and a slight amount of surprise.

"I'm shocked, Isabel. I was certain you would've figured it out by now." Isabel hesitated and thought over his words, her mind connecting the dots of the afternoon to the larger picture.

"Smithy didn't kill my brother." She observer aloud.

"He didn't?" Watson seemed surprised.

"I should've figured it out much sooner, a low life criminal like Smithy doesn't have the connections in the police department for this." Holmes explained. Isabel nodded, it seemed so obvious now.

"The man who killed my brother hired Smithy to get my folder." Holmes nodded in affirmation just as the hansom slowed to a stop. "Could I borrow you hat until we are inside, Watson?" He handed her his cap and she positioned it over her eyes, chuckling lightly. "This will be fun explaining to your landlady." She climbed from the cab onto the side of Baker Street. Isabel followed the two men into their home to be greeted by Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh dear me, Mr. Jones, what has happened to you?" The woman looked suspiciously toward Holmes. Isabel took off Watson's hat, there was no reason to keep up the charade any longer. Mrs. Hudson placed a hand over her heart. "Oh dear me." Holmes looked minutely entertained.

"You could've broken it to her a little more gently." Isabel just shrugged.

"You're the woman from this morning… Isabel? What in God's green earth happened to you darling?"

"That's of no matter to you, Nanny. Fetch Doctor Watson's medic bad and then find Isabel a more appropriate dress." He said in a most rude fashion.

"Holmes!" Isabel scolded with both her tone and her face. "Pardon madam, but if you please, this gentleman," She gestured to Watson. "has insisted on properly checking my wounds and this arse," to Holmes. "has seemed to lost all forms of common decency." Mrs. Hudson very nearly burst into laughter, instead she simply smiled and patted Isabel's hand before scurrying off. Isabel looked crossly at Holmes once again. "You really should treat her with more respect." Holmes simply smirked in a very unapologetic manner. Isabel rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"You just enjoy any opportunity to call me an arse."

"I wouldn't call you one if you weren't being one." Isabel countered. That was the end of the conversation because Mrs. Hudson returned with the medical supplies and Watson led her to the furnished portion of the living room.

"You'll have to remove your coat and waistcoat." Watson instructed and Isabel did so, sliding the suspenders off her shoulders as well so they hung down over her trousers. Watson cleaned off the dried and still oozing blood with a damp cloth, then a dry one. He gently probed the outer edges of the cut with his fingers. "That's going to need to be sewn shut." He studied her cut and then her face in a very doctor manner, reaching into his bag. "I'll inject benzoylmethyl ecogine around the cut to numb it first." Isabel shook her head in protest.

"No." She knew firsthand the damaging and addictive qualities that cocaine possessed, even if it was still widely used by medical men for its pain numbing qualities.

"The pain will be intense without it."

"I am not taking cocaine." She said with a tone of finality. Watson studied her face, but hesitantly obliged.

"Alright. A shot of whiskey to take off the edge then?" Watson suggested and Isabel nodded, agreeing. The doctor went off into the other room, she could hear him rummaging through the cupboards. Holmes was watching her intently without a word.

"What?" She finally asked.

"Why do you feel so strongly about cocaine?" He asked, almost hesitantly, like he was unsure if he really wanted the answer. Isabel sighed, it wasn't a chapter in her life she enjoyed reliving.

"My father's drug of choice. He spent every shilling he made on it, sometimes more than he made. It tore my family apart, we were living in a cellar dwelling, sleeping on straw mats, but as long as he had his drug, he really didn't care. Finally when Andrew was old enough to support me, my sister, and my mum on his own, he kicked my father out and warned him not to come back. That was almost five years ago no, haven't seen him since." Watson returned to the room carrying a cup and a glass bottle filled to the neck with the dark amber liquid. He poured half a glass and handed it to Idabel, who downed the contents in one healthy gulp. It had been a long time since she had felt that familiar burn down her throat. Watson dampened a rag with a small amount of the alcohol and dabbed it against the wound. It burned slightly, but the doctor said it'd reduce the chance of infection. Isabel forced her muscles to relax in the chair, tilting her head up so Watson could put the stitches in and allowing her eyes to close, attempting to mentally block out the pain as he pulled the needle through her skin. It honestly didn't hurt much more than her tattoo had and was over much sooner. After putting five stitches in her neck, Watson examined her face, ribcage, and abdomen for further injuries. He discovered two severely bruised and one cracked rib.

"You're not in pain?" Watson inquired.

"Of course I am." Isabel answered smartly.

"You haven't said anything." The doctor sand almost with a reprimanding tone.

"Is complaining going to make it hurt less, Doctor?" Watson shook his head at her sarcastic question.

"No, but it will help me access your injuries better. Do you hurt anywhere else?"

"I was slammed against a concrete wall by a three hundred pound, seven foot monster of a man. I hurt everywhere." Watson gave her an exasperated look.

"Any where particularly hurtful?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Watson." The doctor grumbled to himself as he packed his medical supplies back into his bag. Isabel caught something along the lines of:

"Sure if you call cracked ribs, stitched up neck, and bloodied knuckles, and damn near everything else bruised or bloody perfectly fine. Stubborn woman…" He grumbled all the way up the stairs and out of ear shot. Holmes smirked, moving from the spot where he had stood throughout the entire examination, watching.

"What's with him?" Isabel asked.

"Oh don't mind Watson, he says things when he's aggravated." She smiled gently.

"Does he find me aggravating?" Holmes returned the smirk.

"I think you aggravate him more than I do, and that is not an easy task." Isabel's smiled turned into one of wonder.

"How so?"

"Watson is a very practical man, things are black and white for him. Simple, logical, everything had its place. To speak bluntly you do not fit into logic. You are not practical or black and white, therefore you are a little off putting to him."

"How do you mean?" Isabel asked curiously.

"Surely you can see how you do not fit into the mold of the typical woman: weak, vain, timid, shallow, passive." Holmes stated in a matter-of-fact fashion. Isabel smiled, bemused.

"Is that a compliment, Holmes?"

"Just a matter of fact." He said simply as Watson returned to the room with Mrs. Hudson, who was carrying a dress with her.

"Come dear. This ought to fit you nicely." Isabel followed the landlady to a room of the house that she had never been in before. She assumed it was the woman's quarters. She allowed Mrs. Hudson to undress and dress her, moving was a great task for her at the moment. The woman made a disappointing tisking noise with her tongue at every mark Isabel had received from her earlier beating. "Those men ought to be ashamed of themselves, dragging a pretty girl like you into such nasty business." Isabel allowed Mrs. Hudson to talk without correcting her, she really didn't want to explain anything. The dress was simple, but held a sort of elegance and was light and loose fitting, a style that Isabel was sure went out of style when Mrs. Hudson was her age, but she was eternally grateful for the forgiving material as every inch of her body ached. The two of them went back out to the living area where Watson and Holmes were still waiting. Mrs. Hudson glared pointedly at the two men. "Every inch of that girl's poor body is bruised, you two ought to be ashamed." The landlady scolded, before heading off to another part of the house.

"Thank you both." Isabel said genuinely. "I should be getting home to Elizabeth and Mum."

"Remember, rest that arm, your ribs need to heal." Watson reminded. Holmes, who had been staring blankly since she had walked into the room, blinked from his stupor.

"I'll flag a cab down for you." Isabel didn't protest because she wasn't sure she'd make it home walking. Holmes went out the front door and Isabel followed slowly, keeping her left arm folded against her side as to not jar her ribs. As the high she had gained from the high energy fights and life-or-death situations died down, she felt the pain much more clearly. By the time she reached the curb, Holmes had already caught the attention of a hansom. He could undoubtedly see the pain that stiffened her every movement, but she did her best not to let it show. His hands guided her gently into the cab, she found his concern slightly alarming, such an emotionally distant man. He must have in some way felt responsible for her pain. Holmes got into the cab after her, sitting on the bench across from her. He must have seen the question in her face, because he answered her unspoken question. "If you don't mind, I would like to ask your mother and sister a few questions." It was a legitimate reason so why didn't Isabel believe him? Usually her observations had basis, they made sense, but truthfully there wasn't a whole lot about Holmes that made sense. He played it too close to the vest. She realized that she had been quiet for too long, he was waiting for an answer.

"Oh, yes, sorry. That's fine." It was silent, but for the creak of wooden wheels and pounding of hooves. The silence didn't bother Isabel, but Holmes' dark intimidating eyes did. She wanted to know why he was looking at her so strangely, but couldn't bring herself to ask. Finally she had enough. "What?" The word had come out harsher than she had intended, so she inhaled and explained her outburst. "You've been staring at me. Do I have something on my face?"

"Besides bruises? No." His tone was patronizing, his features accusing once again.

"Did I do something to offend you, Holmes?" She asked incredulously. "Or are you always this unpleasant?"

"You should've signaled for help sooner, you shouldn't have confronted them in the first place." She scowled.

"I believe that was my decision, and where do you get off being angry at me? I did everything I should've, I did everything right." Holmes' expression changed to one that was almost rueful. That's when Isabel realized his anger wasn't because of something she did. "This isn't even about me is it? This is about you feeling guilty about hitting me and guilty again for not stopping the big bad thieves from hurting little ol' me." She echoed the patronizing tone he had used to her just moments before, unable to keep the anger out completely. She glanced out the window of the cab, biting her tongue and getting her emotions in check. "I think if I proved anything today, it's that I can hold my own, I don't need you or anyone else to protect me. So I appreciate the concern, Mr. Holmes, but don't yell at me." Isabel continued to stare out the window because it was easier than looking him in the eye.

"Just because you can, doesn't mean you should always have to, _Belle_." Her eyes moved toward Holmes' to meet a warmth she had never seen it those dark brown eyes. He had said Belle right? She hadn't just imagined this man using the shortened form of her name, which also happened to mean "beautiful" in French. Looking at him she was fully certain that the double meaning had been intended. The cab seemed to be getting smaller for a moment, then Isabel realized the ridiculousness of that assumption, Holmes was simply moving closer to her, which honestly felt equally ridiculous. His fingertips grazed her knee, as if to assure her that she really wasn't imagining this. Isabel had a vivid imagination after all and times like these she had to make sure that it wasn't getting the best of her. But no, Holmes was there, right in front of her, getting closer ever so slowly.

Then the wheel of the hansom hit a fairly large dip in the road, literally causing Isabel to lurch forward from her seat into the arms of the detective. They simply stared at each other, unable to move for a moment, Isabel's arms pinned between the two and her hands against his chest. The motion of the cab ceased, as did the moment. Isabel pulled away and smoothed out her dress, mumbling an apology while trying to keep the pain from her face. The sudden movement had jarred her ribs most painfully. She cleared her throat and chanced a look at Homes. His expression was torn between amusement and concern, he had noticed the pain after all. Isabel reached for the door, but Holmes politely moved in front of her, which wasn't an easy task in such a cramped space, and opened the door. He stepped down onto the ground, holding out a hand for Isabel, who took it as she stepped down onto the ground next to him. Holmes paid the cabbie, Isabel showed him into the back-to-back that she and her family called home.

"It's not much, but it's enough." She commented quietly as they walked through the door. The first room was the kitchen area, on the other side of which was the living room, toward the back was her mother's bedroom and up the stairs was her and Elizabeth's room. "Mum! Elizabeth!" Isabel called before Holmes had the opportunity to reassure her that her home was beautiful. They heard movement through the ceiling, indicating that her family was coming down. The soft patter of a child's bare feet against the wood floor was music to Isabel's ears. She walked to the base of the staircase to meet Elizabeth, who literally leapt off the third step and into Isabel's arms. It hurt like hell but she squeezed the young girl back, laughing as she spun her in a circle, before setting her down. "'Ey, Beautiful, did you miss me?" Isabel beamed down at the young girl, then looked up toward the top of the stairs to meet the smiling eyes of her mother. A look that quickly turned to concern upon further examination of her daughter's physical condition.

"Bloody heaven! What is this now? You look as bruised as a cheap toffer." Her mother exclaimed in her heavy Scottish drawl, rushing down the stairs. Isabel's eyes widened and she smiled in a comical way.

"Mother! We have company." Ruth looked back toward Holmes and smiled politely.

"Oh, forgive my manners." Holmes was smiling in his amused fashion and gave Isabel a meaningful look before taking Ruth's hand in greeting.

"No worries ma'am, like your daughter. Looks like an angel, talks like a sailor." This earned a robust chuckle from Ruth.

"Oh ho, and who is this man, Isabel?"

"Mum, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He helped me find you earlier and he has some questions for you." Ruth eyed Holmes carefully.

"Holmes, ey? Alright, but I 'ave a question first. What did you do to my daughter?" Holmes looked a little taken back.

"Mother!" She cried in disbelief. "At least offer the man tea before you accuse him of ridiculous things."

"Either he did it or didn't stop it, seein' as 'e's the one you've been with all day. Either way I wanna know."

"Mum!" Isabel's voice was growing exceedingly exasperated. "I can explain what happened when Lizzie's not around." She said in a lower voice. Again Holmes was watching the exchange with that ever amused expression. Ruth dropped the subject at Isabel's urging.

"Would you like some tea, Detective?" The woman asked, almost overtly polite, her tone was exaggerated, making a point to emphasize to her daughter that she was being nice. Isabel nodded her head exaggeratedly, eyes wide, trying to communicate to Holmes that he should say yes. Holmes got the memo and nodded.

"Yes, thank you." Ruth grumbled.

"'Ave a seat then, I'll be right back." Holmes tool a seat on the chair and Isabel sat on the couch, Elizabeth climbing into her lap.

"This furniture is beautiful." Holmes said conversationally. Isabel eyed him momentarily, he really wasn't the small talk type.

"Andrew made it. He was a carpenter." Isabel responded, still trying to figure out the man who sat across from her. Then it occurred to her. Isabel whispered into Elizabeth's ear, the six-year-old smiled brightly, then skipped into the other room after Ruth. "You know." The two words were an accusation, but Holmes needed no more explanation, they were both on the same page. "What gave it away?"

"Nothing physical. Anything that can be shared between mother and daughter can be shared between sister and sister. It's how you interact with her, how you look at her." Isabel studied his face, trying to decide if he was judging her. "Why did you lie?"

"It gets old, that look. That 'you're not married' look, or the 'you're twenty-four with a six-year-old child' look. That look that says 'wow, what a whore'. Just get tired of people judging, it's easier this way."

"It's none of my business, but where's her father?" Her face set, clearly identifying a raw spot.

"You're right, it's none of your business." Ruth and Elizabeth returned with a platter, carting a pot of tea and four cups. Holmes asked Ruth a few pointless questions that led absolutely nowhere, concerning the kidnapping and a few they already knew the answers to. She knew that Holmes didn't come over for that reason. Elizabeth yawned and Ruth stood from the couch, lifting the small girl into her arms.

"I'll take her to bed." Ruth said, heading up the stairs. Holmes stood, Isabel after him.

"I should be going."

"Because you got so much useful information." She smirked.

"Right."

"Oh come on, Holmes. Admit it."

"Admit what?" He said, feigning ignorance.

"You came because you didn't want me to travel alone. You were worried about me. Admit it." The smirk on her face crept into her voice.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Holmes answered, sticking to his 'play dumb' routine. "I had very important questions for Ruth." He cracked a smile. Isabel grinned.

"Whatever. You wanted to see me home. And for the record, I expected you to be a better liar." Holmes simply smiled.

"I'll see you tomorrow, _Belle_." His fingertips touched her bruised jaw and his eyes burned on hers. And then the contact was gone and he was out the front door of her home, into the night. Her eyes snapped from the door to the spot where her mother stood on the staircase, Ruth was grinning with that maternal knowing look.

"What?" Isabel asked.

"Belle? He likes you?" Isabel scoffed.

"Holmes? The man's practically emotionless. He does not _like_ me." She said, even though the words felt wrong coming from her lips. Her mother made that 'who do you think you're fooling?' face. Isabel reciprocated with a fake yawn, feigning exhaustion. "Night mum." She said, walking past Ruth and up to her room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Holmes returned to 221B Baker Street on foot. The night was a typical foggy London night, not a star to be seen and the full moon was covered in a haze of smog. The walk was soothing though and gave the detective some unadulterated time to think. This woman was clouding his judgment like the fog that distorted the moon, hung so high in the sky. It wasn't the fact that he shot Smithy that disturbed him so—although who was he kidding, it's not like he made a habit of shooting criminals in the head—it was the emotions that had preceded the shooting of the man. It was the sheer terror that made his blood run cold at the prospect of Isabel dying in the hands of that criminal. Was it possible that he had formed some sort of attachment to her in the short time that he had known her? Possible. Perhaps even probable. But he shook the thoughts away, he had opted to travel on foot because he needed to think through the case at hand, though he could argue Isabel was a case in and of herself. Again he had to stop himself from going down that metaphorical road. Back to the case. He had taken the long route back, so it was well past any respectable time when he pushed open his front door. The house was still as was to be expected, Holmes moved silently through the darkness, upstairs to his room.

"Nice of you to return." Watson's hushed voice came from the winged-back chair in the corner of the room, a book open between the doctor's hands, a candle burning dimly on the table beside him. Watson did not look up from the book when he spoke, in contrast, his eyes followed the words back and forth across the pages. It occurred to Holmes that earlier he had merely mentioned that he was going to flag down a cab for Isabel, not stay out for the rest of the day. "I presume you had good reason for seemingly disappearing without a word." Watson continued, still reading. "So what have you found?" The silence that Watson was met with caused him to look up from the book, studying the detective's stature in the dim lighting. "You weren't working on the case, were you?" His voice held a form of accusation. Holmes shrugged nonchalantly, regaining some of his sardonic composure.

"The lead didn't pan out." Watson's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Rubbish. You were out with Isabel."

"As I said, the lead didn't pan out." Holmes remarked, handing his outer coat on the hook standing next to the door.

"You met her mother and sister then?" Holmes almost habitually corrected the doctor's statement. _Daughter, not sister_. But he caught himself, it wasn't often that Holmes felt the need to hide details like this pertaining to a case from Watson, but he felt as though the bit was too personal to share. He nodded simply in affirmation to Watson's question. "Well?" Watson pried, as Holmes wasn't volunteering any information.

"There isn't much to say really. Ruth's answers weren't particular enlightening, Elizabeth is only six and barely spoke a word to me." Watson's eyes studied him skeptically.

"Are you finished pretending you have no feelings for this girl then? It's getting really quite ridiculous and maybe even a little childish."

"You're quite ridiculous and maybe a little childish." Holmes said with a mocking and very childish tone. Watson to rolled his eyes and went back to reading his book.

"Dodge the issue if you wish Holmes, but these aren't the sort of things that simply disappear." Holmes yawned dramatically, stretching his arms out.

"If you'll excuse me Watson, I'm quiet exhausted." The doctor stared at the alarmingly thick headed man for a moment, before giving in and simply leaving the room. Although every step the man took practically screamed aggravation. And then Holmes went to lie down, but not to sleep mind you, there was no sleep when he had so much to mentally digest. Physical exhaustion may occasionally prevent him from activity such as his experiments or tinkering, but his mind worked full steam all night, until mental fatigue took over and he was overcome by the lull of sleep. He awoke with the sun to get back to the case at hand, his physical and mental reservoirs once again full with the healing balm of sleep. Watson woke not long after Holmes, the detective discussed the case with the doctor, speaking through the details as he so often did in order to work out the unclear aspects. After this Holmes took off, leaving the house without a word of where he was going. Though, Watson was accustomed to that sort of behavior when the man was perusing a case. It was getting later in the afternoon and while it was not abnormal for Holmes to be gone for long periods of time, typically he sent word as soon as he found anything worth sharing.

The fact that Holmes had not yet contacted him was a little disconcerting to Watson. Only mildly so, however, as Watson spent his day following up with a few patients. When the colors of sunset reflected against the blurry haze, defined as the western horizon, Watson began to truly worry. Dismissing his worry as unnecessary—Holmes could take care of himself, he was a grown man after all—and buried it deep in the pages of a novel that proved unable to hold his attention for very long. Darkness fell on London and there was still no word from Holmes. The doctor had just began to consider going out to look for him when the front door opened suddenly, banging noisily against the wall behind and knocking a ceramic figurine from the shelf. It shattered on the floor and a ghastly wind broke the still air of the house. The cloaked figure hurried to shut the door with some difficulty just as Mrs. Hudson rushed into the room.

"Doctor Watson!" It was Isabel, her features revealed to be urgent and frazzled when she removed her hood. "It's Holmes, I fear he may be in danger."

"What's happened?" Watson asked, as he removed his coat from the hook, preparing to go out.

"I believe he was getting close. I think he found Andrew's killer. He came by the house, said he was on his way to send word to you and that he was on the verge of concluding the case. He said we would send word to you to meet him at my address then return and he would explain more then. But he never came back and when you didn't come I figured he had never sent word."

"When was it you last saw him?"

"About five. I waited until sunset to set out to find you, I wanted to give you both time, but I fear something terrible has happened." Isabel's words were fast and difficult to understand, she was on the edge of an anxiety attack. What if she had got him killed?

"Calm down, Isabel. Do you know where he was headed specifically?" She took a deep breath.

"I assume to Frankie's on the end of my block. He's not an official mail service, but he'll deliver a message for you if you something in a pinch. It must have been something urgent too if he was sending word for you instead of going the extra few miles to tell you himself."

"He probably knew the danger was coming and didn't want to leave you alone that long." Watson's brain had switched to action mode. "Can you take me to Frankie's?" Isabel nodded.

"I have a cab, waiting outside." The sense of urgency was obvious in their quick and decisive movements. It wasn't a long ride to their destination, full of nervous ticking and alternating periods of brief detailed conversation and impatient silence. Isabel informed Watson that she had stopped at Frankie's before going to him, but no one was there, except for the secretary who had said she had not seen Mr. Holmes. Watson still insisted on stopping in. This time Frankie was there himself along with his secretary, both once again claiming to not have seen Holmes. Watson thanked them and he and Isabel stepped outside.

"If Holmes was indeed taken, he would not have done so quietly or without leaving some trace of himself, I am sure of it. It would seem he was taken somewhere between here and your house. Show me the way." It was a short route, maybe a ten minute walk. The traveled it a few times, searching the street for any clue of altercation. Isabel spotted the shine of metal on the thin strip of cobblestone that separated the road from the walkway. Under further inspection, she found that it was a cufflink, in the same general area she also found a cracked bit of tooth and a speckling of blood that had been obscured from sight by the multicolored stone it set upon. She dropped the small but of metal into Watson's hand.

"If I'm not mistaken, Holmes was wearing this when he stopped by my house."

"He does own a similar pair." Watson confirmed. Isabel looked down at the chipped tooth on the sidewalk.

"And it would appear one of his captors is now missing a tooth." Upon further inspection of the road and surrounding area, Isabel found that the most fresh tacks in the dirt were heading east, which made sense considering the road dead ends to the west. The tracks in question appeared to have been made by a single horse-drawn run-of-the-mill hansom cab with a wobble in the left wheel.

"What is it Isabel?" Watson had taken note of the expression on her face, it was something akin to the one Holmes' made when he found a clue.

"The people who took Holmes probably headed east from here." She answered, then headed west.

"I thought you said they went west." Isabel nodded.

"Aye, which means they came from the west. Probably were lying in wait outside of my house. There really is no way to track him from here. I'm going to have to do some digging."

"Digging?" She glanced at him.

"I have some connections on the streets."

"And by 'streets' you mean with criminals."

"Not entirely." She said sharply. "Do you have anyone you can really trust in the police department or government?"

"Lestrade is trustworthy. He may not like Holmes, but the man is a good detective."

"Contact him. Pry ever so gently for any information he may know about my brother's case, or any chatter he may have heard recently about his higher-ups. Even rumors. He'll be hesitant, but tell him lives may depend on it."

"What if he hasn't heard anything?"

"Policemen gossip like old broads, he'll have heard something." Isabel said assuredly as they approached her house. "I'll send word to Baker Street when I've learned anything of use, if you don't hear from me by morning, come here."

"Are you positive we wouldn't be better off staying together?"

"I daresay, Watson, you are worries about me. Do not take this the wrong way, but you would only hinder my chances of finding information. You'd stick out where I am going." Watson gave a slight nod.

"I will do as you say then. I will contact Lestrade right away." He touched her upper arm. "Stay safe and godspeed."

"You as well John." Isabel and Watson went their separate ways there, Watson to contact Lestrade and Isabel to disguse herself before delving into the seedy underbelly of London's finest criminal. It had only occurred to her while she was slipping the hat over her locks to obscure her eyes that the altercation at Smithy's hideout may have blown her cover. Rumors of the girl dressed as a criminal who could walk the walk and talk the talk would've undoubtedly spread. She made sure none of the clothing she wore was the same as it had been that night and would be extra cautious. She had a reputation though, surely none of them would even think to suspect her. At least that was her hope.

As she thought, she did hear a number of stories of the "she-devil" their impersonator, but Mr. Jones was clean of any suspicion. Little could be heard though of the kidnapping of one Sherlock Holmes or the strings therefore connected. It was nearing two in the morning and she was damn near giving up and seeing if Watson had better news. That was until Isabel stopped in one of the more infamous bars in London. A large man at the front counter was bragging to his mates at how he had helped get "some bastard detective" done in. Isabel stumbled over, loudly ordered a pint of ale and held the glass in salute to the large bragging man. "Oy, was the one ya did in Holmes? Bastard got me seven in the pen."

"Aye! That was 'is name! Holmes!" The large man boomed.

"Good on ya! If ye don' mind, how'd ya do it? Did the bloke suffer?" It took all Isabel had to keep up this charade, her mind was in borderline panic mode.

"Threw the man in a cab, I did. Right little bugger 'e was, knocked out me tooth." The man used two of his sausage like fingers to pull down his bottom lip, showing off the gab in his bottom row of teeth proudly. "No match for me o' course, shut the puny wanker up wit' a blow to the skull. Turned 'im in and got me bounty, then got the hell out."

"'E's not dead then?" Thankfully the drunken oaf missed the hopeful edge to her voice.

"Good as dead. Mr. Caywood likes to play wit' his food before 'e tosses it, if ye get me drift." The thug gave a hearty chuckle, too drunk to realize he had made a rookie mistake in giving out the name of his employer. Isabel recognized the name too. She saluted the man once again with the pint, sloshing some of the ale over the sides.

"Well I owe ye one mate." She took a healthy swig of the beer, then slammed the glass down on the counter along with enough money to cover her drink and one more. "One for me friend 'ere, bartender!" She needed one more bit of information from the man and it would take a bit of gentle manipulating and a fair amount of alcohol. "So you got one solid his on the man then?" She said with a grin.

"One? Half a dozen!" The thug barked loudly with a stupid grin, he was obviously exaggerating.

"Aye!" Isabel cheered him again, watching the already drunken man down a whole pint. "I bet Mr. Caywood were 'appy wit' ya!" She chuckled lightly.

"Never seen the tight arse as 'appy!"

"Caywood… think I've worked for 'im 'fore. Real snooty, 'as that warehouse on eighth?"

"Nah, Caywood's got the one on Northwood. Ha! Caywood on Nothwood! Haha!" The drunk man laughed over his odd sort of rhyme.

"Right! Suppose they're all snooty, must've been thinkin' o' someone else." Isabel gave the bartender the last bit of money she had on her. "One for the road, mate. Must be getting' on wit' business." She slid him the pint and made for the exit. The distance home was too far to walk, so she flagged a cab and would pay him when she got home. It was late and the cabbie eyes her suspiciously, but didn't say anything. The cabs who worked late nights were used to drunks and criminals. As soon as she had paid the cabbie and changed into normal attire, Isabel walked the few blocks to Frankie's in the dark. She pounded on the door until he opened, a tired scowl on his face, which turned to quick concern at the late hour of her visit.

"Sorry Frankie, I know it's late, but this one's urgent and I'll pay double." The man shook his raggedy head. He was an old family friend.

"We both know if you do that, I'll be takin' food out of little Beth's mouth. Where am I going?"

"221B Baker Street, give him this." She handed him a folded note. "He should be up waiting for it." Frankie palmed the small slip of paper and placed a small fatherly peck on her forehead.

"Alright. Now go home and go to sleep, a lady shouldn't be up at this hour." She gave him a patronizing smile.

"Will do. Thank you, Frankie." Isabel did manage to catch an hour or so of sleep on the hard couch downstairs before Watson knocked quietly on her front door. "That was fast." She commented as she let him into the house.

"I got your note and came immediately. I talked to Lestrade."

"Right you first."

"No you." Isabel rolled her eyes and preceded to explain in detail the happening of her night and what she had discovered. It turned out, Lestrade had heard some unsettling rumors of none other than Mr. Caywood himself concerning his affiliations with certain crimes including thievery, kidnapping, and murder. Lestrade felt the rumors were vastly over exaggerated, but unsettling nonetheless. "So do we wait for morning?" Watson asked, unsure what they could do at such a late hour. Isabel shook her head.

"If what I hear is right, Holmes may not have that long. We go now."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Water dripped somewhere in the dark and the dank moist smell of dirt and standing water painted the cement of the stone room Holmes was being held in. Iron shackles and chains bound his wrists to the wall, holding them in an awkward position as he slumped against the stone floor. He knew not where he was, which was terribly unsettling, but the bit of information could not help him regardless. His head throbbed at the spot where he had been struck, from behind mind you. Cowards the lot of them. Given the slices in his knuckles though, he figured he at least knocked out a tooth before being struck unconscious. He had woken already chained in the hole some hours ago and no one had opened the door since then.

He could easily pick the locks on the iron shackles, he had already inspected them as thoroughly as he could in the darkness and came to the conclusion that they'd prove to be no problem. There was a thin curl of dark metal that he wove into the locks just above his right ear that could easily be retrieved by simply standing. However, he did not know if being unchained for the time being was a good idea. The door was undoubtedly locked and if he were found unchained it may prove to get him killed more quickly than not. So there he stayed, chained to the wall.

Holmes was first made aware that the door was being opened by the sound of a clicking lock and then by the light that the opening door allowed in. A man of mid to late forties who had sharp featured and the air of one with great power stood in the door frame, a package beneath his right arm and his eyes carefully looking Holmes over. It was Mr. Caywood. The tall figure lit a lantern on a small wooden table and set down the packed, preceding to shut and lock the door. The package proved to be a large piece of leather folded over on itself a few times.

As Caywood unbound and unfolded it, he revealed its sinister contents of knives and other sorts of heinous looking devices, all crafted for one purpose, torture. Holmes was beginning to think he should've picked the locks. Caywood lifted a long but very thin knife with a large wooden handle and a sharpener from the pouch, sliding the edge of the blade across the steel rod, creating the intrusive noise of steel on steel. "You're going to tell me, Holmes, all that you know and who else knows it. We can do it the easy way or the hard way. It's up to you." Holmes glared pointedly then spat on the man's shoe. Caywood shook his head. "Wrong choice."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Isabel and Watson managed to find the seemingly only cabbie who was still working at such a late hour. The place they were headed was a good half-hour ride and the cabbie seemed grateful for the extra bit of money. The warehouse was locked, but it was late enough that no one would see the women bent to her knee, using a pin from her hair to unlock the door. The inside was pitch black, as was to be expected. She pulled the candle and box of matches that she had brought for that precise reason from the folds of her dress. She lit the candle with a stroke of a match and then shoved the matchbox back into her dress. She stepped further into the building with Watson right beside her.

"It doesn't look like anyone is here." She whispered, moving along the path illuminated by the candle. Isabel stopped mid-step. She sensed more than saw or heard another presence in the ill-lit room. The darkness was deep though and was barely scratched by the small candle. "Wat—" But her mouth was suddenly covered by a hand and an arm braced her body from behind. There was some sort of cloth between her mouth and her hand. Even though she kicked and scratched at the man, her vision began to dim until her world went completely black.

The first thing Isabel was aware of was the pounding in her skull, whatever the chemical was that they used to knock her out, it left behind an intense migraine. The next thing was the concrete beneath her. She must have been unconscious for a while to feel the soreness down to her bones as she did. Her eyes opened slightly, thankfully the lighting was dim so it didn't aggravate her migraine and her eyes could adjust quickly to take in her surroundings. Watson was in the other corner of the cement room, apparently still unconscious.

She went to move toward him, that's when she noticed the shackles that secured her hands to the wall. Under further inspections, she found Watson was cuffed in the same manner. That's when the screaming started. Her first instinct was to cover her ears, the horrid sound was amplified by her migraine until she was sure that the pain would make her pass out. On the brink of tears she realized that the screaming torturous sounds of anguish and agony were from a familiar throat. Holmes. Isabel then began to scream, her palms digging into her ears, straining her voice until the other screams stopped. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. This had to be a nightmare. Watson still hadn't come to, but the door on the far side of the room opened and a sinister looking man entered.

**A/N: So I don't normally do these, but this one is specifically for a comment I received from "Sicily". I felt the need to clarify something, but it was an anonymous review so I couldn't reply. I am very glad you picked up on that, yes my Holmes is slightly more characteristic of the book while Watson is more akin to the movie. My reasoning was simply that I like movie Watson a bit more, and book Holmes I felt works better for the plot line of this story, although I do think you'll find Holmes to be more of a balance between the books and movies in this and upcoming chapters. Book Watson is quiet difficult to put a finger on since the books were told from his own point of view, I always felt Doyle purposely underplayed Watson's role because that was part of Watson's character. He wasn't the kind to talk about himself, so I really think the movies shed light on how I pictured Watson and more fully fleshes out his character. This was longer than I had intended but while I'm here, I want to say thank you to MarliGibbs, kind comments never go unnoticed :) ~Jenn**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"You're awake I see." The man's voice matched his sinister face, a long scar ran from the side of his eyebrow to the center of his cheek. He set a medium sized package on the small wooden table, the only piece of furniture in the room. Isabel ground her teeth in contempt. There was a good chance that this man had murdered her brother, at the very least he was involved in it in some way. She tasted blood. "A shame really. I hate breaking promises." She couldn't help the curiosity this piqued within her. Promise? "You are a curious one. That much is obvious. He begged me to leave you alone, you and your little family I suppose. It was a man's dying wish and I saw no harm in giving him that small bit of peace, how could I have possibly foreseen your unrelenting quest for the truth?" Isabel ground her teeth once again. It was like he was placing the blame for his actions on her and although his words were almost kind in a diplomatic sense, she could hear the threatening tone behind them.

"Who begged you?" Was he talking about her brother? Surely…

"Why your brother of course, my dear girl." Isabel could tangibly feel her anger now. Had he really just practically confessed to murdering her brother?

"What did you do to him?" She spoke through her teeth. His eyes darkened, a shadow crossed over his face making him appear impossibly more cruel.

"That much, you already know." Anger had completely taken over rational thought. Isabel was on her feet in a matter of moments, a pin from her hair in her left hand. By the time Caywood had crossed the room she had freed her right hand, which was enough to punch him square in the mouth as hard as she could, screaming obstinacies. Her language switched between English and Gaelic, then back and forth. She could see the slight amount of shock on his face. Then his tongue darted out and licked his lips, looking almost as if he enjoyed the flavor of his own blood, like he enjoyed the pain. Caywood's eyes flashed, his hands grabbed her wrists most painfully and he slammed her back against the wall. His expression, of extreme anger and arousal, both terrified and confused her but she could still feel nothing above her anger. The shackle clicked back around her wrist, but his presence didn't move. Isabel glowered at him, daring him to make a move.

"Oy!" Watson's sound of protest cut through the silence. Caywood grinned manically and pulled away from her, smoothing the front of her wrinkled dress with his hands in a nearly gentleman-like fashion.

"I've been waiting for you to awake, doctor."

"Get your hands off of her!" Isabel was a little surprised at Watson's outburst. Caywood raised an eyebrow at him, taking a step toward him.

"Did you say something, _Doctor_?" Caywood's voice was menacing. Watson's face darkened and Isabel knew he was going to repeat his words. Her eyes widened and she shook her head. Her antagonism had clearly already angered the man and she feared he wouldn't be as gentle with Watson. Watson either didn't see her or simply ignored her warning, because he repeated himself.

"I said, do not touch her." This was not going to go over well. Caywood was no more than a few steps away from her so she did the first thing that came to her mind. Using the shackles to her advantage, she launched herself off the wall with her feet, swinging her legs outward with all her weight on her wrists. The balls of her feet made contact with the side of his head, sending him sideways, his head connecting with the floor with a sickening crack. There was no landing gracefully in her position, her momentum was stopped abruptly by smacking into the cement wall. This was not helping her migraine. She straightened herself as quickly as her throbbing body would allow, pulling another pin from her hair, her anger turning on Watson.

"Are you insane? Goading the man like that, get yourself killed you will." By the time she had finished lecturing she had freed her right hand and was moving on to her left. Watson pushed the amazed expression from his face and gave her a look that called her a hypocrite.

"You're one to talk." Isabel paused momentarily after springing the lock on her left hand.

"How much of that were you awake for?"

"Right about the time when you punched him in the face and screamed at him. What was that, Gaelic?" Isabel pursed her lips, as if thinking, as she crossed the room to him, undoing his shackles just as she had her own. She gestured to the unconscious body on the floor.

"Help me, he won't be unconscious long." Watson assisted Isabel in propping the man up against the cement wall and she secured the shackles on his wrists. "Holmes is close, but I don't know what's waiting outside this room."

"Holmes is here?" Watson took a step toward the door, then turned back toward Isabel. "How do you know?" Isabel clenched her jaw, her nostrils flared as she remembered the awful screaming.

"I heard his screams. They were muffled, but close." Watson studied her face for a moment, but Isabel cleared her expression and headed for the door. "We need to hurry, they be no way to keep him silent once he awakes." She quickly examined the package she had seen Caywood bring into the room with him. It was thick padded leather wrapped around many sharp objects of different lengths and sizes. She took two dagger-like knives for herself and offered Watson his own choice. He looked a little hesitant. "We may need them. It's simple, just keep the sharp part away from you." She gave a small smile, trying to play down the seriousness of the situation they found themselves in. He gave a small patronizing smile.

"I know how to use a knife." Watson lifted one of the more menacing looking pieces from the bunch, a long blade with a serrated edge near the handle, and tucked it into the inside of his jacket. He took another, slipping it into his right boot, he took two more, gripping the handles backward so the blade side disappeared into his sleeves. Feeling under armed, Isabel stuffed the two daggers she had already taken into the folds of her dress and took two more, holding the handles backwards the same as Watson did. Her sleeves wouldn't conceal them, but she could keep them out of sight with her forearms until they were needed. She glanced at Caywood's body slumped against the wall and scooped up the package with the remaining knives, no need to leave any easily accessed weapons for him.

Watson stood with his back to the wall next to the door, Isabel shoulder to shoulder with him. She took a deep breath. "Ready?" She gave a slight nod and he turned the handle, opening the door just a crack. Watson slid silently out of the doorway and Isabel followed, just as silent. Her fingers tightened around the handles, sweat coating her palms. She made a slight noise with her throat, gaining Watson's attention, and nodded toward a door that looked similar to the one they had just went through at the end of the hall. He gave a nod and stepped around her, heading toward the door. Isabel walked backward, slowly making her way after him and keeping an eye out. Watson tried the handle, locked. Isabel went for the pin in her hair, but before she had the chance to pull it out, he lifted his good leg and kicked the door with such force that the wood around the handle splintered. The door shuttered on old hinges and banged against the cement wall behind it. That wouldn't go unnoticed.

The two rushed in at the same time. The room was nearly identical to the one they were held in, cement walls, wooden table, shackles and all. Except of course for the shirtless, bloody, bruised, swollen body of Sherlock Holmes on his knees in the corner. It was a heart shattering sight. His white skin even paler than normal with the blood loss, marked with deep purple bruises and thin trails of red still oozing blood. His arms were spread wide and shackled above his head. His head sagged over his chest, his damp curls obscuring his face. The air of the room changed subtly and Isabel turned on her heel, facing the doorway. Watson followed suit and they backed further into the room, knives slowing moving into the correct position in both their hands. Three large men stood in the doorway. There would be more coming soon. "I'll get Sherlock. Hold them off John." If their lives were going to be tied together, then the least she could do is call them by their first names.

The look on Watson's face went from understanding to fierceness as he looked from Isabel to the thugs. She backed quickly to the spot where Holmes was as Watson sprinted to the opposite side of the wooden table, knocking it to its side and preparing himself for the oncoming fight. He was just buying time. Isabel dropped to her knees in front of Holmes, letting the knives fall to the ground on either side of her. Her trembling fingers held his face up, searching for some sign of life. There was a large gash above his eyebrow, another on his cheekbone, blood dripped from his lips mixed with saliva. She felt the warm air stream from his nostrils, then pressed a hand to his chest to feel his heart beat. Just to be sure. Isabel took his face between her hands once again and began to shake his head. "Sherlock!" She whispered sharply, no response. She glanced behind her, Watson was doing well in holding off the three men, receiving quite a beating in the process though. "This was a stupid, _stupid _idea." She turned her attention back to Holmes.

"Wake up before you get Watson killed!" Still shaking his head. She grunted and snatched the pin from her hair, working the locks that held his wrists until they opened. His arms went limp at his side, like a pair of wet noodles. Very well toned wet noodles. She brushed the curls out of face, holding his up by his jaw. "Come on! Wake up you selfish bastard!" And then two strong hands clamped around her wrists, two deep brown eyes suddenly alert and fixed on hers. Holmes pressed his lips against hers, Isabel went stiff, but relaxed after a moment. She could taste his blood on his lips and so she pulled away. He was grinning darkly.

"Selfish bastard, eh?" Isabel nodded.

"Cheeky arse." His lips were against hers again, his rough hand finding the side of her face, guiding her closer, brushing his tongue against her bottom lip…

"I'd hate to interrupt!" Watson exclaimed, out of breath, bringing Isabel back to reality. She pulled away from Holmes, grabbing her knives off the floor beside her.

"Do not move." She instructed, looking right into his eyes, then was off the floor, her hands wielding two daggers ready to strike. She used the butt of the handle to strike the first man right between the eyes, disorienting him, as she simultaneously lodged the other knife down into the muscle of his shoulder. The man collapsed to his knees and Isabel twisted the knife, it wasn't severe enough to kill him, but he'd never have full use of that arm again. She placed a boot on his chest and pushed him onto his back, yanking the knife from his shoulder. The man rolled to his side, cradling his shoulder. Watson had already incapacitated the other two and Holmes was on his feet, taking unsteady steps toward them. "I thought I told you not to move."

"I'm fine." His voice was hoarse and she gave him a once over, surveying his injuries now that he was on his feet.

"Indeed." Holmes took another step and stumbled slightly, she instinctively went to his side, one hand immediately going to his arm, the other pressing against his chest, steadying him. He raised an eyebrow at her suggestively. Isabel replayed their short exchange in her head and found the innuendo. She rolled her eyes and shoved the hilt of one of knives into his palms. "Can't have you going around unarmed, even if you are too weak to fight a child at the moment." The jibe was clearly meant to inflict only a small amount of harm on his ego. He simply grinned lopsidedly at her. She should've known his ego was much too great for that.

Watson led their small procession, Isabel followed slowly behind, Holmes' arm draped over her shoulder and hers pressed securely into his back. Each of their available hands armed with a knife. "Do you have any idea where you're going, Watson?" Holmes asked after a few minutes of going from hall to hall. Watson glanced back at Holmes, glaring.

"Do _you_?" Watson's face turned from annoyance to warning.

"L—" He didn't even get the whole word out, his face was warning enough. Isabel shoved Holmes into the nearby wall, ignoring the grunt of pain, it felt better than being stabbed in the back she was sure. Her hand released the knife in the direction her eye had aimed, it sunk deep into the intruder's chest. He made an odd sort of wet gasping sound before falling flat on his back. Isabel stared in shock at the man now lifeless body. She had never killed someone before. He was going to kill her, or Holmes, or Watson, or perhaps all three of them, she knew that. But as she stared at the man all she could think was did he have a wife? Children? Two hands gripped her by her shoulders, lips moved without making a sound, someone was shaking her.

"_Belle_!" She found a pair of concerned brown eyes, and shook herself back to reality. Isabel pulled one of the extra knives from the folds of her dress and they started back down the hall. She noticed that Holmes was staring at her, but pretended that she didn't. It took some trial and error, and a little violence, but they finally found a door that led them into the light of day. The sunlight was blinding, they were in an ally void of any other human life. Isabel felt like she could breathe for the first time since laying eyes on Caywood. "Are you alright?" She blushed slightly, embarrassed that she had frozen like that.

"I'm fine. What about you?"

"What, this?" He grinned, gesturing to the cuts and bruises that covered his torso. "All superficial, love." Watson shook his head and removed his coat, handing it to Holmes.

"Cover yourself, Holmes. Being tortured isn't an excuse to being inappropriate in front of a lady." Isabel flinched at the word 'torture', remembering his screams. Holmes took the coat, his smile faltering as he read the guilt and anger on her face.

"I'm sorry, for getting you both involved in this. For what he did…" Her words cut off and she clenched her jaw.

"All superficial, love." Holmes repeated his previous words. Isabel wasn't convinced, nor was her guilt absolved, but she dropped it.

"Shouldn't we contact Lestrade or something?" The detective gave a short nod.

"There's a telegram post around the corner, would you mind, Watson? I think I need to sit for a spell." The doctor nodded once, leaving with a look of concern of his face.

"Let me help you." Isabel said, taking his arm around her shoulders again and helping him sit against the wall of the building. Holmes grunted. "Sorry."

"I've had worse." His grin held a sense of gloating, but Isabel knew he was only trying to make her feel better.

"Right, I almost forgot. Your favorite pastime." She was teasing, her tone almost sarcastic.

"For having so much disdain for boxing, you're pretty familiar with fighting."

"I don't have _disdain_ for boxing, I have _disdain_ for _you_ boxing. And when it's fight or die you learn pretty fast." She said the last sentence to cover up the words before it, hoping they'd go unnoticed.

"So you're saying you've never handled a knife until today?" His voice was incredulous, one eyebrow raised.

"That isn't at all what I said. I said you learn fast in life-or-death situations, you're assuming this is my first time in that sort of situation."

"Ok, I'll give you that, but more interestingly, you only don't like the idea of _me_ boxing. Why is that?" His eyes glinted and she glared. She hadn't really meant to admit that aloud. She caught sight of a figure at the far end of the ally and pointed toward it.

"Oh, is that Watson?"

"You're changing the subject." Isabel smiled coyly, climbing to her feet.

"Am I?" Her gaze went back to the figure. "Yup, most certainly Watson."

"_Belle_…" She grabbed his hand and helped him to his feet, pretending she hadn't heard him.

"Come on, the quicker we get out of this ally the better."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The first thing Isabel knew was that her migraine was gone, the second was she was lying in an unfamiliar bed wearing night clothes that she had no memory of changing into. The last thing she remembered was falling to sleep in the hansom that was taking Watson, Holmes, and her away from Caywood's residence. Lestrade had arrived in a timely matter, bringing a whole legion of cops with him. Caywood was still shackled in that little cement room when they found him. Lestrade had taken her statement, along with Holmes' and Watson's, but Isabel barely remembered what she had told him. She was half asleep at that point. She sat up, the large blanket fell off her body, revealing the dense material of a think white nightgown. Isabel grasped the material in her hands, then patted the down beneath her.

"What the…"

"Don't panic." The voice made her jump, her head snapping instinctively toward the sound. She found the owner of the voice seated in an overstuffed wing-backed chair on the other side of the dimly lit room. Holmes.

"Where am I?" She grabbed at the nightgown again. "What is this?"

"Calm down. You're at 221b Baker Street." Isabel gave him a look that said, 'not what I meant', but Holmes continued as if he hadn't noticed. "Nanny insisted on changing your clothes, something about the blood. I explained most of it was mine. No worries." He wore that ever amused smirk of his.

"How could that possibly make me _less_ worried?" She stretched her limbs, feeling like she'd come unhinged at the joints. Everything hurt. His expression became thoughtful.

"You were out cold, Watson was beginning to worry."

"How long have I been asleep?" Holmes made his way to a set of dense curtains and pulled them back to reveal the graying light of morning.

"Nearly all day and all night." Isabel's eyes widened and she threw off the heavy blanket, stumbling onto her feet.

"Elizabeth, Mum. They must be worried. I need to get home. Where are my clothes?" Her eyes searched the room for some trace of them.

"Calm down, _Belle_. They're downstairs having tea and eggs with Watson and Mrs. Hudson. I sent word explaining what happened." Seeing her accusing and alarmed expression he added, "With as little detail as possible. Ruth insisted on coming." Isabel sat back on the edge of the bed, kneading her left shoulder with her right hand. Her left shoulder and hip had taken the brunt of the encounter with the cement wall, she could feel the throbbing bruises. Holmes expression became amused, covering his concern. "I think Nanny's gotten quite fond of you. She blames me for this of course." Isabel was pretty sure he wasn't only talking about Mrs. Hudson. She gave a gentle smile.

"Did she find the dagger in my dress? I bet she yelled at you a good while for that one."

"Indeed. You should've seen the look on her face. I think she believes I'm a bad influence on you." Isabel grinned more fully.

"I do think I'm the bad influence here."

"Is that so?" She gave a confirming nod, her face becoming more serious.

"How are _you_ feeling?" Holmes rolled his eyes.

"You sound like Watson."

"Are you avoiding the question?"

"Am I?" Isabel glared slightly, but the smile she couldn't keep off her lips took away from any annoyance she tried to portray.

"Cheeky arse." He grinned. Silence fell over the room and Isabel stretched her arms. She didn't know how to treat what had happened the day before her and Holmes. He had kissed her, twice actually, but what had it meant? To him? Holmes sensed her change in mood and realized she was pondering the events that had happened around the last time she called him that. He hadn't quite decided what to make of it. One moment he was being tortured, then everything was black, and then she was there, her hands and fingers frantic on his skin. Yelling at him. So close to him. He simply had been unable to control himself.

"What was a stupid idea?" Isabel's eyebrows knitted together, then relaxed in understanding.

"You _were_ awake before I called you a selfish bastard."

"Only vaguely. I heard you saying it was a stupid idea, then something about me getting Watson killed. My arms were freed, but I still couldn't move. Then of course you called me a selfish bastard, I woke up, and…" Holmes trailed off.

"And you kissed me." He cleared his throat.

"Yes and that. So the stupid idea?"

"You're changing the subject again."

"You changed it first." He retorted.

"Fine. I assume Watson told you what happened before we found you?" His expression confirmed the assumption. "I was talking about the whole thing. It was too rash, too unplanned. I didn't think it was going to work, especially since you weren't waking up. But I guess I was wrong." She paused, waiting for him to make some sort of witty or sarcastic remark, but one never came. He was oddly silent. "Say something." Holmes simply tilted his head as if to say, _What?_ "I need to know, Holmes. What was yesterday… to you?"

Isabel felt ridiculously self-conscious, almost fearful of his response. There was a thoughtful expression on his face, the sardonic lines turning to gentleness. At that moment the door opened, Watson standing in the doorway looking very doctorly. Isabel never hated the man more than in that moment. She didn't hate him, no, just the fact he had interrupted whatever it was Holmes was about to say, because the sardonic expression was back.

"You're awake. That's good. How are you feeling?"

"Well." Maybe it was the tone of her voice, or the sense of tension in the room, but Watson finally realized it.

"I've interrupted something. Your mother and sister are downstairs, Mrs. Hudson left you clothes over there when you're ready." Watson gestured to the back of the chair Holmes had been sitting in, then took his leave. Isabel was momentarily distracted by another thought. She raised an eyebrow at Holmes.

"You didn't tell him about Elizabeth?"

"I didn't think you'd want me to." Isabel smiled lightly with gratitude.

"Thank you." Holmes crossed the room until he stood only a few feet from her. Without a word both of their minds had switched back to the moment before Watson's interruption.

"Words are weak." And then she was standing, wrapped in his arms. It struck her then how improper the whole situation was. She was in a nightgown, in this man's room, in this man's _arms_. She was suddenly very happy neither of them were ones for formalities. His eyes were fixed on hers and for the first time Isabel noticed the tiny golden flecks in his deep brown irises. She wondered for a moment what he was thinking and was just about to ask when his lips covered her own. It was different than the one from the day before.

That had been fierce with a sense of urgency. This was slow and carefree. The million questions floating around in her mind were gone. He had managed to silence her thinking process to the point that all she could concentrated on was his lips on hers, his rough calloused hand that cradled her face, the steady rise and fall of his chest against hers. She felt his tongue brushed against her bottom lip and pulled away abruptly, her hand on his chest holding his back a foot.

"You should go, I need to get dressed." Isabel stared at her hand, removing it quickly from his chest at the realization she may be aggravating one of his numerous injuries. Thoughts, questions, concerns all flooded her brain once again and she couldn't meet his eyes, afraid he might see the thoughts in her eyes. His hand that still caressed her face tried to guide her eyes back to his, but she stepped back, removing herself more completely from his touch. Isabel folded her arms over her stomach, she didn't want him to see what she was feeling her eyes and she knew as soon as she looked at him, he'd know she was terrified.

"_Belle_, look at me." She shook her head and he chuckled, amused as usual. His hand cupped the side of her face again and she instinctively looked up. His amused expression turned to one of concern and wonder. "What is it?"

"You." She said ruefully with a forced laugh that even she knew sounded like it was to cover the emotion in her voice. "It's you. Me Us. Whatever _this_ is…" Isabel trailed off, taking a breath and pulling herself together. "I need to get dressed." She only managed a half of a step before he grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her effortlessly back into him. "Holmes…" But her protest was silenced by his mouth on hers. She melted into the kiss, just as before, all thoughts of protest disappearing. This time he pulled back first, leaving her breathless. His grin was a little smug, apparently the fact that he could distract her easily went right to his head. "Stop doing that."

"What?" The sense of innocence in his voice made Isabel glare slightly.

"I can't think when you do that."

"Maybe you should think less. React more." Isabel rolled her eyes.

"Maybe you should leave so I can make myself decent."

"You _are_ decent."

"You know what I mean." He gave a wry grin.

"I'm not sure I do."

"Get. Out." She ground through her teeth. She was done playing games.

"You can't kick a man out of his own room." Isabel clenched her jaw and crossed the room to where her dress was, cleaned of blood and dirt.

"Fine." She scooped up then silken material in her arms and disappeared behind the privacy screen that stood in the corner of the room.

"You're angry."

"Good job on that observation, Holmes, would you like a prize?" She removed the nightgown that Mrs. Hudson had provided her with. The woman had also apparently removed her underclothes and washed them too, she found them folded neatly with her dress. The thought made her blush slightly and she made a mental note to thank her later. She pulled the dress over her underclothes and fumbled with the ties on her back. Her fingers were shaking too badly to do much more than create knots. Isabel grunted in annoyance. "Bloody ties." The curse had been louder than she had meant. Holmes appeared silently behind her, gently fastening her dress into place with deft fingers.

"What are you angry?" Her jaw clenched again, since he was asking…

"This might all be some big joke to you, Mr. Holmes, _mess with the poor client's feelings_, but it isn't funny. Not to me." Feeling that he had finished doing up her dress, she moved to walk away, but he caught her wrist again.

"That's what his is about? You think this is a game to me?" Isabel had been pretty sure of it in fact, until he said that. Her eyebrows scrunched together.

"Isn't it?" He touched her face, that amused expression returning. Isabel moved from his touch. "See. That look right there. You look at me like I'm some form of entertainment." His features softened, trying to make her understand.

"_Belle_, you intrigue me. You are different from other women. You do things, say things, I do not expect and yes, it does amuse me. But this isn't a game or a joke, and you are not just a client." He looked over her dress. "And for the record, I liked the other one better." Isabel couldn't help the playful smirk that formed on her lips.

"Of course you did." She moved so her lips were close to his ear, having to stretch onto her toes. "I didn't have any undergarments on." She pulled back, getting a good amount of satisfaction from his stunned expression, and then headed for the door. Isabel felt his hands grab her hips from behind when she was halfway to the door, pulling her back flush against his body.

"Now _that_ was evil." Isabel grinned.

"I'll have to make sure Mrs. Hudson knows you're a big fan of her nightgown." She felt Holmes shutter.

"Evil woman." She could feel his hot breath on her neck, his chin hovering near her shoulder. Isabel turned in his arms so she was facing him. Very hesitantly she rested her hands on his shoulders, her mind switching to concern again. He read her expression before she could voice her concern. "You don't have to worry about hurting me, love."

"Remember what happened the last time you called me that?" He chuckled at the memory.

"I think you slapped me for talking about your feminine curves, not for calling you 'love'." His hands ghosted over her sides as he spoke.

"I could slap you again." She said matter-of-factly.

"You could." He said, knowing full well she could. He didn't have to add 'but you won't', they both knew she wouldn't.

"I shouldn't keep Mum and Elizabeth waiting any longer." She said, pulling away from him. He could tell it was more of an excuse than anything else. She didn't want to touch him, she was still worried she'd hurt him. Isabel had seen him without a shirt, she knew he was in pain no matter what he said. Holmes let it go though and followed her downstairs. As soon as they were insight Elizabeth wiggled out of Ruth's arms and ran into Isabel's legs.

"Izzy!" She exclaimed in a trilling voice, her long red ringlets bouncing around her face as Isabel scooped her up.

"Hey baby girl." The small girl wrapped her arms around Isabel's neck, but leaned back so she could look at her.

"Where've you been?" Isabel smiled lightly.

"Mr. Holmes was helping me find something I've been looking for." Elizabeth's eyes flickered to Holmes who was standing a few feet behind Isabel, then hid her face shyly in Isabel's hair. "Be polite, Elizabeth. Say hello." She peaked out from her mother's locks.

"Hi."

"_La Belle fille_. You are very beautiful." Holmes smiled at the child then gave Isabel a meaningful look. _Just like you mother._ Elizabeth giggled and hid her face again. Ruth hovered close by, not wanting to interrupt the moment.

"Hey, mum." The woman squeezed both Isabel and Elizabeth in her arms.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?" Ruth sent a glare in Holmes' direction.

"I'm great. Really, Mum. I don't know if Doctor Watson told you…"

"The only thing _Doctor Watson_ told me is that you were fine and asleep. He said the rest you should tell me." Isabel sent a thankful glance Watson's way.

"We found him, ma. They arrested him. He's going to prison." Ruth gave an exasperated look and began to speak in very fact Gaelic. **(A/N: For clarification purposes, italics mean their speaking Gaelic.)**

_"Have you lost your mind? He could've killed you, just like he did your brother!"_ Isabel pressed her hand against Elizabeth's ear, holding the girl's head against her shoulder. She responded in the same language.

_"Mum! Elizabeth can understand you! And you should be happy, Andrew's finally getting justice!"_

_"For how long? The man is very powerful, he won't be in prison for a year and then he'll be back for you!"_

_"You knew? You knew who he was?"_

_"Of course I knew! Andrew _worked _for him."_ Isabel felt like the air had been sucked from her lungs.

_"No, I don't believe you."_

_"It's true dear."_ Ruth's voice softened. _"He made me promise to never tell you."_ Isabel didn't know what to say. She couldn't breathe. She felt like everything she knew about her brother was a lie. Ruth reached to smooth out her hair, but Isabel flinched away from the attempt at comfort.

_"Do not touch me."_

_"Isabel…"_

_"No Mum. Take Elizabeth home."_

_"You have to understand…"_

_"Go. I'll be home later." _Ruth nodded and took Elizabeth from Isabel's arms. She said goodbye and thanked Mrs. Hudson before walking out the front door. Both Holmes and Watson were staring at Isabel with curiosity. Mrs. Hudson made herself scarce by collecting the tea tray and heading toward the kitchen.

"What just happened?" Watson was the first to speak, but Isabel's eyes were fixed on Holmes', reading the question in his eyes paired with concern.

"Andrew worked for Caywood. My mother knew all along." The words sounded strange coming from her mouth, they didn't make any sense. With everything Isabel knew about Andrew, it just didn't make any sense. It registered that Holmes didn't even look surprised, just worried and a little guilty. "You knew too?" He was Sherlock fucking Holmes. Of course he knew. He knew everything. That actually hurt.

"_Belle_…" His voice was hesitant, patronizing. She glared angrily.

"You knew and you didn't tell me." He took a step toward her. "Don't!" And then she was yelling in Gaelic, angry words that held absolutely no meaning to this man. She was angry at Andrew, not Holmes, but it wasn't like she could yell at her dead brother. Holmes was the next best thing. His hand touched her shoulder, but she was too angry to be comforted. Isabel jerked away from his touch. "Don't bloody touch me!" She couldn't get out of the house fast enough, headed on foot to the graveyard where Andrew was buried without even really being consciously aware of it. It wasn't a long walk.

She paced the green patch of grass in front of the headstone that read 'Andrew Michael Jones' wanting to scream or yell or cry or something but unable to do anything except pace. Isabel combed her fingers through her hair, gripping the roots, and turned sharply toward the headstone as if she was going to give it a piece of her mind, but every time she opened her mouth nothing came so she'd go back to pacing. She must have looked like a raving lunatic to anyone witnessing her little tirade. When the words finally came they fell from her lips like a broken dam, yelling at her dead brother's grave in Gaelic. When the anger ran out, Isabel fell to her knees in the soft wet grass tears staining her cheeks.

She didn't understand how he had kept something like this from her. He was her brother, her best friend. She wanted to hate him, to be angry. But even though she didn't understand why he didn't tell her, she did understand why he had done it. Money. He couldn't support three useless women on the salary of a laborer. She was doing the same thing wasn't she? Ruth didn't know, Elizabeth didn't know. Isabel rested her forehead against the cool stone. "I'm sorry." A warm hand touched her shoulder and Isabel realized how cold it had gotten, she was shivering. Then she was off the ground, being carried bridal style. It took a moment for Isabel to register the change, and another to know that it was Holmes who carried her. She cleared her throat. "Put me down."

"You're freezing."

"Put me down, Holmes." He hesitantly obliged, but took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. "How'd you know where to find me?"

"I followed you." There was no shame or hesitance in the admission, Isabel looked at him.

"You watched me, that entire time?" He simply shrugged as they continued walking. Isabel took a deep, calming breath. "I'm sorry I yelled at you." Holmes smiled lightly.

"What exactly was it you said?" She winced and blushed.

"You don't really want to know."

"That bad, huh?" Isabel nodded.

"I wasn't mad at you…"

"I know." Isabel leaned against his arm as they walked.

"So be honest, how insane did I look back there?" She smiled up at him.

"I had to stop a few people from contacting a mental institution if that's what you're asking." He grinned back. An involuntary shiver ran down Isabel's spine, the cold had seeped into her bones. Holmes wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side. "You should let me carry you. You'll warm up faster."

"I'm fine." She had to grind her teeth together to keep them from chattering.

"_Belle_…" There was a convincing tone to his voice, but she cut him off.

"You are not carrying me Holmes."

"I told you, you don't have to worry about hurting me, love."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"No, Isabel." She glared at him.

"You can't carry me and I'm not that cold." He gave a mischievous grin and lifted her off the ground into his arms without so much as a warning.

"I _can_ carry you and you're freezing."

"Put me down." He placed a kiss on her forehead.

"Not a chance."

"Why do you have to be so damn stubborn? You're going to hurt yourself, now put me down." He raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"_I'm_ stubborn?"

"You're stalling."

"Yep. Only for another block."

"Holmes…"

"It's a moot point to argue with me. You won't struggle because you're afraid you'll hurt me and I'm not putting you down until were in a house by a fireplace. You may as well just enjoy the ride." Isabel glared, knowing he was right. She didn't want to budge an inch, her muscles were already aching with the effort of not moving while being held in midair. It wasn't an easy task. "Watson won't be happy with you."

"Watson will be fine. He'll be more worried about you I expect." Holmes was, of course, right. As soon as they walked through the door, Watson began his doctorly hovering. When Holmes set her down near the upstairs fireplace in Holmes' room, Watson felt her face then looked to Mrs. Hudson.

"Bring some hot tea please." Isabel shrugged off Holmes' coat, only to have him put it back on her shoulders. Holmes sat next to her, attempting to rub some warmth into her arms with his palms.

"It's alright Mrs. Hudson, I don't need any." Mrs. Hudson looked from Watson to Isabel, smiling gently, then walked off toward the kitchen to get some tea.

"Are you alright?" Watson's eyes searched her, apparently looking for any injuries outside of the cold that chilled her to the bones.

"I'm fine Watson." She rubbed her hands together and inched closer to the fire. "How long was I out there?"

"Too long." Holmes looked a bit self-reprimanding. She rolled her eyes at him.

"Don't." Holmes seemed to understand the meaning of the single word and although Watson raised an eyebrow, he didn't ask. Mrs. Hudson returned with a tray and placed a cup of steaming tea in Isabel's hands. She offered milk and sugar, but Isabel turned it down, sipping the black tea. She felt the burning liquid warm her belly from the inside. "Thank you." She met Mrs. Hudson's eyes, trying to convey that she was talking about more than just the tea. The woman gave a nod and busied herself in another part of the house. "Why didn't you tell me?" The question was directed at Holmes and he had no trouble figuring out what she meant.

"I was going to." Isabel could see the truth in his eyes.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay, I'm not mad at you." Holmes gave a small smile.

"I thought you were never mad at me."

"Only slightly." Isabel grinned, warmth had begun taking back over the cold. Watson mumbled something about a new book and left the room. She watched him leave and gave Holmes a questioning look. "What was that about?"

"Watson is uncomfortable with… whatever _this_ is." Holmes used her words to describe their relationship.

"Watson disapproves of me?" Holmes chuckled.

"Hardly. More like he disapproves of me." Isabel didn't find the humor, her eyebrows were pushed together, trying to understand.

"What exactly is he uncomfortable with? I mean we're not even sure what _this_ is. He's uncomfortable with two adults getting to know each other?"

"Don't be offended. Actually you should be flattered."

"Flattered?" Holmes sighed, he didn't want to have to spell this out for her.

"He's protective, Watson is, and he's grown pretty fond of you in the short time he's know you."

"Fond?" Isabel was still confused. Wasn't Watson engaged?

"_Belle_, you've become somewhat like a sister to him. He doesn't want you to get hurt." Holmes explained slowly. Isabel smiled gently.

"Well you can tell Watson not to worry." She stood, shrugging Holmes' coat off her shoulders. "I should be going." Holmes nodded and walked her to the door.

"I'll come by tomorrow and make sure you and Ruth haven't killed each other." Holmes gave a lopsided smile. Isabel knew it really was just an excuse to check up on her. They were both blatantly aware that this case with Caywood had probably put them both on a list in the criminal word that could prove very dangerous in the near future. So she simply nodded and walked out into the cold, headed home.

**A/N: Alright, so not one of my best chapters, I know it was a lot of Holmes/Isabel fluff/dialogue, but it gets more interesting. Promise :) ~Jenn**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Isabel spent the night watching Elizabeth sleep. Thinking over how her life would change from that moment on. The events of the last week or so had brought about a realization that she had simply been ignoring before. She couldn't leave her daughter and mother alone. She wouldn't. She'd been lucky so far, making it out alive was a small miracle each day and she had pushed the envelope far enough in the last three years. She'd work in a brothel and live in a cellar-dwelling before she left Ruth and Elizabeth on their own. She'd never tell her mom the truth. It would only serve to make Ruth feel more guilty for not being able to work, the truth was a burden Isabel could bear on her own. Unable to sleep she had a lot of time to think things through.

She planned to go to the local school and check if they were in need of a teacher, if not perhaps they could recommend a family looking for a governess. Isabel was educated well enough for either job. If that failed she'd go around to local inns and taverns and see if anyone would hire her as a chambermaid or perhaps a bartender. None of these jobs would pay half as much as she currently brought in, but she would manage. She had to. Of course maybe she could keep her male disguise and get a job as a laborer. That would pay better than any job she could get as a woman and that is what she did in the beginning, before she became Mr. Jones.

It was dawn and Isabel was almost ready to go out when there was a knock on the door. She had forgotten that Holmes said he was going to stop by. She opened the door and motioned for him to come it and to be quiet. "Elizabeth and Mum are still asleep." She fixed the small lace hat onto her head. She'd stop a Frankie's to put on the man's work-clothes as per usual. "Forgive me, but I was just going out. As you can see I'm alive and well." She gave a lively smile as if to prove her point.

"Where are you off to so early?"

"Find work. I thought I'd try the docks first, they can just about always use an extra pair of hands for loading and unloading cargo." Holmes frowned slightly, his expression thoughtful.

"You could work for me, you know." Isabel gave a snort of laughter, having to cover her nose and mouth to cover the sound.

"Do you need _two_ nannies, Holmes?" He gave a smirk of amusement.

"I'm serious. You proved quite useful on your brother's case." She thought about it for a moment.

"Holmes, I need a steady paying job. I have to support Elizabeth and my mum." He gave a shrug.

"So I'll take on more cases. It _would_ be a steady paying job." He smirked and added, "You could probably take some of them on your own." Isabel thought about it a little more seriously. Work with Holmes on cases regularly? Hadn't she been trying to get away from the danger? Of course she had the feeling what he did wasn't nearly as dangerous as the small taste of it she had gotten. Plus she'd be working for people on the right side of the law, which greatly decreases the danger in and of itself. Then the fact that Holmes and Watson would always be there if they did find themselves in a bit of trouble. She must have thought about it too long for his patience. "Of course if you prefer, you could just keep my documents organized and whatnot. You could be like my secretary." Isabel glared.

"You're hilarious. This isn't something I can just make a decision on, I need to think about it." He gave a rueful smile.

"Makes sense that'd you'd be afraid of commitment. Of course." The statement seemed to be mumbled to himself more than anything else, but that didn't stop Isabel from giving him a questioning look. "Nothing, just, think about it then." She gave a nod.

"I will." She took a step toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To the docks…"

"I thought…"

"I'm going to think about it Holmes. And I'm going to see what my other options are." He looked a little apprehensive, but didn't say anything. Isabel rolled her eyes. "What? You don't want me to work on the docks? Is that why you asked me to work with you? Not because I could help, but because you just don't want me working somewhere like the docks?" His non-answer was answer enough, she clenched her jaw. "I didn't think you were the type."

"And what type would that be?"

"The type that believes a woman's place is at home. It's nearly the twentieth century Holmes, a _lot_ of women work now."

"Not disguised as a man working with sailors and sweaty dockhands!" She gave him an incredulous look.

"This is about _jealousy_? Really? Come on, I thought your ego was too huge for such a pathetic emotion." She mimed a swooning girl and her voice went up a notch. "How could I even look at another man with Sherlock Holmes in the picture?" The last bit was simply teasing, but Holmes seemed beyond jokes.

"You're being ridiculous."

"_I'm_ being ridiculous? You're the one getting upset for no reason. I handled myself just fine when I worked on the docks before."

"That was before…"

"Before what?"

"Before…" Something changed in his face and Holmes seemed to be fed up with words. Instead his calloused hands slipped over the sides of her face at the same time his lips met hers with a bruising force. The suddenness of the act shocked her into stillness, but it didn't take long for her to respond. Her hands were pinned between their chests and it idly occurred to her that her hat had fallen to the floor. She pulled back slightly.

"Before you kissed me? Yes Holmes that is true." She whispered with a small amount of dark humor. Holmes seemed annoyed that she had pulled away to speak and pulled her lips back against his. This time he was the one to pull back after a few more intense moments.

"Before I fell in love with you." Well…that wasn't what she was expecting. Love? When did this man get all jump-in-feet-first about relationships? That certainly wasn't the read she had gotten off of him, of course she'd been wrong about him before. She realized that some sort of response was necessary, but her throat wouldn't cooperate. So she pushed her lips back against his. He pulled away early though, studying her face, looking for an answer. Damn him. Why did he have to make things complicated? Why couldn't they just go back to kissing? She couldn't think let alone form a coherent sentence. He couldn't possibly know how complicated this was for her.

"I…" Her voice caught and her jaw clamped shut. Her eyes blurred and before she knew it she was out the door, going as fast as her feet would carry her, leaving Holmes standing in her kitchen with no idea what the hell just happened. How could she explain what was going on to him? She needed to talk to her brother. She needed Andrew. A sharp pang ripped though her stomach. An errant thought crossed her mind and she found herself heading in that direction without a second thought. Finally she found herself outside of 221b Baker Street, pacing on the porch like a lunatic once again. "This was a stupid idea." She mumbled to herself. Isabel took one last look at the door and was about to descend the porch steps when the door opened.

"Isabel?" Watson stood there, concern written on his face. "What's wrong?" His eyes flickered behind Isabel. "Where's Holmes?" She rubbed the back of her neck with her hand and avoided his gaze.

"I don't know…I don't know why I'm here…" He moved to the side.

"Come in. Have a seat." She walked in, but didn't sit. Watson shut the door and looked at her, still obviously concerned. "What's going on?" She met his eyes and found very brotherly concern there. Maybe Holmes was right…

"I'm sorry…I…I didn't know where else to go…"

"It's perfectly fine Isabel. What's wrong?"

"Holmes…he uh…he said that he's in love with me."

"Really?" Watson was in disbelief. She nodded. His disbelief softened into a mix of curiosity and happiness. "Well, what did you say?" Isabel grimaced.

"I, uh, didn't really say anything. I sorta just, ran out."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. I mean were fighting and…"

"Fighting about what?"

"I was going out to the docks to find a job and he starts acting odd."

"I don't blame him, working at the docks?" Isabel glared slightly, _not the point_. He gave a nod. "Right, so he was acting odd…"

"Yes, then he kisses me and says that he's in love with me. I didn't know what to do. So I ran."

"Probably not the best decision."

"I _know_! But I mean… I thought he was scared of commitment, like me. I thought I wouldn't have to worry about him being the one getting attached." Watson smiled gently.

"You changed that about him Isabel. Incredible, I didn't the man _could_ change." Isabel gave an exasperated grunt.

"You don't understand. Holmes doesn't even understand." She pinched the bridge of her nose and shut her eyes tight, inhaling deeply. "I can't… I don't…" She couldn't get it out of her mouth. She didn't know where to start. He was wearing that smile, the one Andrew used to wear. The one that said, _you can tell me anything Iz._"I like Holmes. I do. I just…it's so complicated."

"I don't think it's as complicated as you think." Isabel bit her lip and gave a sigh.

"Elizabeth isn't my sister, she's my daughter." To Watson's credit he covered his shock pretty well and the fact he was counting the years in his head even better.

"Does Holmes know?" Isabel nodded. "Then I don't understand, if he knows…"

"He doesn't know all of it…" Isabel ran her fingers through her wavy black hair and sat on the edge of the couch. "Have you and Holmes ever worked a rape case, Watson?"

"I can't say that we have." He didn't know where she was going with this, she could see it on his face and hear it in his voice.

"Why do you think that is?" Still no understanding, but he went along, giving a shrug.

"It's not a very prevalent crime." Isabel shook her head.

"Because the victims are terrified of what will happen if they tell anyone. Do you know what the police tell the ones who are brave enough to step forward?" Watson shook his head. "That they are whores who just regret it in the morning." This disturbed him, but he still didn't know what she was trying to say.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand…"

"I assume Holmes told you what I told him about my father." Watson nodded. "He was my step-father. And Elizabeth's biological father." She waited for her statement to sink in. Outrage, disgust, concern, and grief fought for dominance of Watson's face. Andrew had had the same reaction. "Andrew didn't find out until Elizabeth was one, that's when he kicked the man out." Watson's hand was covering his mouth, he had no idea what to say.

"Isabel…"

"I know it's horrible. I know. But I didn't tell you for your sympathies. How am I supposed to tell Holmes that my daughter is also my step-sister? I don't know what to do, Watson. I'm afraid…"

"Of what? That Holmes won't love you because your step-father was a monster?" His smile was gentle, patient.

"That I'm damaged goods. I don't know. Telling Holmes just seems, unimaginably horrible. I don't want him to look at me like I'm victim, he's already infuriatingly protective. I don't want him to look at Elizabeth like she's an abomination. Andrew's the only one I've told any of this to."

"You didn't tell Ruth?"

"Why? So she can know that the man she married raped her daughter and that her grandchild is also her step-child? She doesn't need that kind of guilt."

"Holmes isn't going to treat you or that little girl differently. He's a rational man. He isn't going to put the sins of a man on the shoulders of a six-year-old." Isabel knew his words were true.

"I guess you right. It's just scary, looking at him and knowing how much I already like him. I don't want to say anything to make him like me less, you know?"

"You don't hear him when he talks about you, his whole face lights up. I've never seen the man like this. I'm fairly certain there isn't anything that could make him like you less."

"I probably should go find him." Isabel stood and smiled gratefully at Watson. "And Watson… thanks." He smiled and wrapped her in a hug.

"Anytime, Isabel."

"What?" She pulled away from Watson at the sound of Holmes' voice, he was standing in the doorway. Odd, she hadn't heard the door open. His face was hurt and angry and her stomach dropped to her toes as she realized what he must be thinking.

"Holmes…it isn't what it looks like."

"So you didn't run out on me to go to Watson?"

"Yes, but…" Starting with 'yes' to that question had been a bad idea, he was too angry at this point to listen to an explanation. Watson stepped protectively in front of Isabel, seeing the pulsing anger in Holmes' face.

"Listen, Holmes, it wasn't…" Watson stumbled backward, cradling the side of his face. Holmes had punched him square in the jaw.

"Holmes!" Isabel cried in protest, moving slightly in between the two men to stem any further altercation. She was being pulled backward then, Watson moved protectively in front of her, still holding his jaw.

"Holmes, calm down! You don't even know…"

"Know? I think I know enough, _John_." Watson's eyes narrowed.

"So you think that low of me? That I would cheat on Mary, that I would take _your_ Isabel?"

"Then what…?" Isabel jerked her wrist from Watson's grip and stepped back between the two men.

"I needed to talk to a _brother_. Excuse me for thinking that was okay!" She looked behind her at Watson. "And I'm not _his_ Isabel." Her eyes, burning with anger, moved to Holmes. "Not anymore." Isabel moved for the door, only to be stopped by a hand wrapping around her wrist. She turned on Holmes, pulling her arm from his grasp.

"_Belle_, I'm sorry…"

"No. You punch your best friend because he hugged me? Jump to ridiculous conclusions. You really think that little of me?"

"No…it wasn't like that. I wasn't thinking."

"Clearly!" He took a half-step closer and she backed up a step, holding up her hands defensively. His face was almost pleading.

"I'm not gonna hurt you."

"How do I know that? I clearly don't know you as well as I thought I did."

"I do irrational things when you're involved…"

"Oh, so it's my fault you punched Watson?"

"That's not what I meant! God woman, I can't think right. You cloud my judgment, I have no bloody clue when it comes to you. I don't know! You hear me, I don't know!"

"Well neither do I Holmes! Maybe I do like you, maybe I even love you! But I don't know, because you are so damn confusing! One minute you're the gentlest man in the world and the next you're so jealous that you punch Watson. You can't just spring that _word _on a person. Yeah, I freaked out. I ran. You _scare _me, do you understand that? My feelings for you _scare_ me. I have no bloody clue either! But you don't see me going around getting angry and punching people!"

"No, just freezing to death at gravesites."

"Fucking arse. Bring up my dead brother why don't you? That'll make everything better!"

"I'm the arse? I told you that I love you and you run away! You ran away!"

"You freaked me out! What was I supposed to do?"

"Oh I don't know, say it back, talk to me, tell me what's going on…anything but run away!" Isabel gritted her teeth.

"Fine. You wanna know why I didn't say it back? Elizabeth is my father's. Step father actually, doesn't that make it _so_ much better?" She watched as the anger slipped from his face. "I know, disgusting right? I bet you're so glad I haven't said it back yet, that way you still have an out. You don't have to be with the freak whose daughter is also her sister!" He reached out to her, but she flinched back. "Don't touch me." Tears were threatening to spill over and Holmes paid no attention to her warning. He pulled her into her his chest, his arms holding her tightly. She tried to fight him off at first, but gradually gave in and allowed him to hold her.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered repeatedly into her hair. "I'm so sorry. I didn't… I'm sorry." Isabel pulled back, wiping her face with her shaking fingers.

"Listen, Ruth and Elizabeth don't know. You can't tell them."

"You've kept this to yourself all these years?"

"Andrew knew." Holmes nodded.

"I won't say anything." Isabel bit her lip.

"I'm, uh, sorry. For running away, and freaking out, and yelling." He nodded again.

"Me too, for the yelling." He placed his lips next to her ear. "I still love you, you know." Isabel smiled.

"Love you too." Holmes grinned and kissed her lips, slow and steady, but Isabel pushed him back. "You need to go apologize to Watson." Sometime during their argument, Watson had ducked into another part of the house to give them some privacy. Not that he couldn't hear them anyway, but it was a kind gesture. He captured her mouth with his again.

"Watson can wait." He moved his lips against hers, their mouths molding together with delicious pressure. Isabel pushed him back again.

"Now." Isabel sat on the couch, crossing her legs and arms. "I'll be right here." Holmes went toward the kitchen, the same direction that Watson had apparently gone. She heard soft apologetic tones more than actual words, but Holmes was grinning when he returned.

"All better." He sat on the couch beside her.

"So does that offer still stand?"

"Offer?"

"The job." He smirked.

"Of course."

"Then I accept."

**A/N: Yes so more angsty fluff crap, we get back to the good stuff next chapter haha :) Sorry if Holmes seems a little OOC at times, this is how I imagine him in my head. I'm that person who believes that love can change a person in some ways, so yeah :) Review? ~Jenn**


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